The Red Witch and the Nightmare Queen
by Catasterism
Summary: The Cabal decried Pyrrha's course as doomed, so she went on alone. Upon an unnatural isle she found the haunting witch she sought to end, let free the unraveling bonds, and lost control. Escape was hardly the word for what followed when so little remained.
1. Chapter 1

Pyrrha had killed her sister.

The thought screamed through her burning head over and over as she soared through the storm on Ashlin's broom.

 _She's dead. She's dead. I killed her._

A sudden downdraft nearly sent her crashing into the shadowed forest rushing by below; she yanked the broom upward with numb fingers and leveled out again. Wailing wind clawed at every sodden inch of her and lanced under her bones like driven splinters of ice. She didn't dare release her grip on the broom to repel the elements, petrified at the thought of falling.

 _"Coward."_

The voice in her ear was impossible.

Pyrrha chanced a glance behind her, and lightning flashed, illuminating a cloud of black wings closer than before. Thunder boomed and darkness reclaimed the skies, pierced a thousand times by the shining yellow eyes of the murder, sinister spots of light like a malevolent swarm of fireflies. On the horizon behind them glowed a writhing pinprick of orange; the flaming remnants of Pyrrha's home.

She could hear them now, over the rumbling sky and pounding rain: a cacophony of hoarse cawing, calling for her blood to wet their beaks. Adrenaline coursed through her as she leaned further forward, nearly flat against the broom, willing it to go faster. Pyrrha was rigid with numb terror, but there was no choice; she had to break the jinx and apparate.

The roaring storm tossed her about like a child's doll as she released her right hand's white-knuckled grip on the broom handle. Her stiff limbs worked in her favor, keeping her seated as she withdrew her wand. At a gesture the wind and rain parted around her, and flying came easier, the shrill howling in her ears abruptly muffled. Pyrrha took a deep breath, and regretted it. Blood and burning flesh flooded her senses.

She turned her wand on herself, redoubling her firm grip on the broom handle, and said, _"Finite."_ She felt nothing; the jinx held.

 _"Did you really think something so simple would work?"_

The cawing grew louder every second. Yellow flashed below, and Pyrrha looked beneath her to see dozens more sets of shining eyes moving silently through the brush. When her eyes met theirs they abandoned all pretense of stealth, unleashing chilling howls and guttural roars; there were bears and wolves and untold other creatures, baring savage fangs that caught the moonlight. They matched her speed, weaving between the foliage with preternatural awareness, never once looking anywhere but directly up at her, waiting for her to slip.

Pyrrha swore and began casting, moving her wand steadily in a series of complex movements in harmony with a mental litany of counterjinxes. A new sound brought a fresh stab of fright; under the storm, under the coarse calls of the crows, was a nearby flutter of flapping wings, carrying with them the sickly smell of decay. The mad cawing echoed in Pyrrha's skull, and she botched a wand movement. She cursed and started over.

They were too close; throaty cawing and guttural roars sounded from all around her, a gruesome clamor of frenzied beasts. Pyrrha's heart thundered as she performed spell after spell, soaring blindly through the dense downpour, through inky darkness deep and black as the depths of the sea. Laughter rang in her ears. The smell of rot was almost overpowering, as if she sat in a mass grave of the plagued. Lightning ripped the sky ahead and burned jagged lines into her vision.

Pyrrha finished another incantation, and the subtle inward pressure on her body vanished. The last thing she heard before disapparating was the sharp click of a beak snapping shut inches from the back of her neck.

* * *

She reappeared under a clear black sky in a forest clearing far away, and found she was missing a leg. She toppled to the ground with a grunt.

Her left leg was torn away from mid-thigh downward; the stump bled freely. Her breathing came in quick, ragged gasps as she fought the pain and ran her wand over the wound, stanching the bleeding, sealing the flesh together.

Pyrrha rifled through the pouch in her robes, withdrawing a Blood-Replenishing Potion and a large, ornate silver hand mirror. The bitter potion stung her throat, and she cast the mirror aside for the moment. She summoned Ashlin's Nimbus 3000 from where it had rolled away and stowed it in her pouch.

Her wand became a blur as she flicked and twirled her wrist, wrapping the clearing in several defensive charms from where she sat in the bloody grass.

 _"It won't help. She'll find you."_

Pyrrha whipped her head back and around, but there was no one in sight. That didn't mean they weren't there.

 _Homenum Revelio!_ she thought with a sweep of her wand. The charm emanated outward and revealed no one—no one human.

The witch wasn't the only threat. _Belua Revelio!_ All around, sparks of life in a range of sizes made themselves known. They shined briefly as tiny, twinkling stars imposed over Pyrrha's vision, then winked out of existence together. Too many to count; not unexpected in the middle of a forest. Most beasts, magical or not, posed little danger to Pyrrha . . . until tonight. They had proven themselves tenacious pursuers under Morrigan's thrall.

Pyrrha directed her wand at the nearest tree. The dark trunk warped under her direction, separating a large chunk of wood. The wood shifted under her wand, and she formed a perfect replica of her splinched leg, complete with a matching low-heeled boot. She guided the substitute into place and melded wood to flesh with an itchy, tingling sensation at the divide. Running her wand down the limb, she wove charms into the grain; it seemed to shine dimly from within.

She leaned back and tested the limits of her new appendage, allowing herself a moment of pride at the way the wooden knee bent and the ankle rolled at her will. She could have regenerated the limb, of course, but the telltale ache in her heart cautioned otherwise; she would have to be judicious with her strength until she could heal.

The lack of sensation from her makeshift leg was disconcerting as she staggered to her feet. The forest loomed inward from all sides, shadows upon shadows between the trees. Shrill chirping and buzzing of insects sounded over a soft breeze, which carried pleasant, earthy smells. The moonlit glade appeared the same as Pyrrha remembered; a relatively small patch of grass, dirt, and stones, unremarkable but for its perfectly circular shape, and the fact that Pyrrha had created it.

She flicked her wand, and from its tip sprang hundreds of tiny lights which scattered in all directions until they blanketed the dusky clearing like a star-strewn nebula, bathing the area in an ethereal blue-white glow. With an elegant series of waves and whirls she bent the trees and their boughs, shifting their trunks until they lay across each other all around the clearing, forming a flowing, circular wall. The branches extended and wove tightly into each other overhead, becoming a thick, latticed canopy. With a sweeping gesture, she turned the entire domelike structure to gleaming steel.

That would have to do for the moment, she thought. There was no telling when Morrigan would find her again. She needed Wasila's help.

Pyrrha wiped sweat from her brow with a forearm and hissed in pain when she brushed the burn. The last of her adrenaline fled her, and the throbbing steadily intensified. She picked up her hand mirror and examined her face.

Her coal-black eyes were pinched with pain; a gruesome burn emanated from a spot below her right temple, the flesh charred black in the center, blooming outward in violent shades of red and purple. The burn covered the upper half of the side of her head, with dark purple tendrils creeping across her cheek and forehead. Every inch of it throbbed, and it felt like a white-hot brand pressed against her skull even now. Her right eye was bloodshot, but otherwise, luckily, unimpaired.

Pyrrha gritted her teeth at the pain and turned her wand to the mirror with a sharp tap. "The Lodge."

Her reflection shimmered, then went black before resolving into a familiar room; the Lodge's common hall, where the Cabal gathered to trade favors and knowledge. The room was dominated by a circular ebony table surrounded by seven high-backed chairs of fine red velvet. Luminescent fungi of various sizes and shades of gold sprouted from the dark walls and ceiling, casting an otherworldly glow over the many cluttered shelves and tables set against the walls. A fire crackled merrily beyond the meeting table, burning within a grand fireplace that could fit three abreast.

Aradia Tavani stood hunched over a desk laden with flowing rolls of parchment, quill twirling between her fingers as she frowned at a weathered old book. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, was pulled into its customary tight bun, revealing the lined olive skin of her face.

"Aradia!" Pyrrha called out.

Aradia turned sharply in a whirl of elegant vermilion robes. "Pyrrha. You startled me . . ." Her low voice had a subtle Italian lilt. She approached the mirror. "What business merits . . . ?" She trailed off as she caught sight of Pyrrha's scar, eyes widening almost imperceptibly.

"My apologies for interrupting your studies. Is Wasila about?" Pyrrha asked in what she hoped was an even tone.

Aradia ignored her. "You've been injured. Cursed." Her eyes narrowed as they met Pyrrha's. "How?"

Pyrrha kept her expression carefully neutral. "A duel. How else?" This wouldn't satisfy Aradia, she knew. "I was investigating rumors of an unexplored system of catacombs in Paris, magically concealed. Someone didn't take kindly to my curiosity," Pyrrha lied, trying for an untroubled look. "I sorted them out."

"Indeed?" Aradia said, tone laced with suspicion. "I've never known anyone to get the better of you in a duel. They must have been truly remarkable."

"They were," Pyrrha said simply. Something snapped in the distant woods, and Pyrrha glanced away from the mirror, but she couldn't see past her steel barrier. She fought down the dread rising in her chest and turned back to Aradia, straining to keep her voice placid. "If you could fetch Wasila for me, I would be grateful."

Aradia gave her a knowing look. "Do you require her in particular? Perhaps I can be of assistance."

"Thank you, but I do need her, yes." Wasila was the only one of the Cabal to vote with her, and therefore the only one Pyrrha could hope to persuade into aiding her under the table.

"How curious. Why?"

Pyrrha was running out of patience. Morrigan could arrive at any moment. "Because she's—she's uniquely qualified, now will you retrieve her, please?"

"I won't." Aradia's voice was hard. "I think you're lying to me." She leaned forward intently, searching Pyrrha's face. "You released Morrigan."

"I didn't."

Aradia found what she sought. "You did." She shook her head slowly, sorrowfully. "Foolish. We concurred lifting the curse was beyond our capabilities. What on earth possessed you to attempt it alone?"

"I . . ." Pyrrha wanted to fling the mirror away; her ineptitude at lying had just cost her. "I couldn't just let it lie—just leave her there, biding her time. Something had to be done."

"That is neither here nor there. If the legends have any merit whatsoever, Morrigan is far too dangerous for a lone witch to engage with, regardless how skilled she thinks herself."

"'Too dangerous' is a craven's evasion. It's unacceptable."

"I am no coward, Pyrrha." Aradia's shoulders seemed to bear invisible weight. "I simply have more vital concerns, as you are aware. More vital concerns, and a thorough understanding of my own limitations . . . Now," she said, "tell me what you've done."

"I meant to accomplish what we discussed; I attempted to put Morrigan to rest, to release her from . . ." Pyrrha clutched at her skull as it throbbed like a smouldering heartbeat. "Instead, she overpowered me, fought back, and I couldn't—couldn't beat her . . . I fled. She tracked me somehow, and I led—led her straight to my . . ." Pyrrha bowed her head, a sharp ache blooming in her chest.

Her sister was gone.

Aradia sighed, looking somber. "I am truly sorry, Pyrrha, but you know what must happen now. You've defied the will of the Cabal, acted against the vote . . . and unleashed a horror on the world."

"Wasila . . . she voted in my favor," Pyrrha said with a hint of desperation. "With her help, perhaps—perhaps I can—"

"No," Aradia said firmly. "I will not allow you to endanger our lives as you have your own. Pyrrha Clay," she said, straightening up and clasping her bony hands together, "you are hereby excommunicated from the Cabal of the Hebdomad. You are marked for death; such is the way our secrets remain so."

"You're making a mistake," Pyrrha said, gripping the mirror so tightly her hand hurt. "If we don't stop her, who else—who else will?"

Aradia drew her wand and aimed it at the mirror, her expression carved from stone. "Goodbye, Pyrrha."

Fury and panic coursed through Pyrrha, and she gave Aradia the most hateful look she could muster. "You'll regret this," she whispered. "Your son—"

The mirror cracked down the middle, and the sharp sound rang out unnaturally in the clearing, an echoing noise of finality. Aradia and the Lodge faded from view until Pyrrha stared at her own stricken reflection. She hurled the mirror away with a shout, shattering it against the steel wall. The shards littering the grass reflected all she had left in the world, her own broken self, and it wasn't enough. She'd never been enough.

"You handled that quite poorly."

Pyrrha's heart skipped, and she spun about to see Ashlin standing there, looking at her with a scornful turn of her mouth. Her bright blue eyes carried an unfamiliar coldness.

Breath abandoned Pyrrha like she'd been struck in the gut by a speeding bludger. Her heart hammered erratically, and her vision began to swim with tears as elation, guilt, and terror overcame her like a tidal wave. She took a few halting steps forward, her arm halfway outstretched. "A-Ashlin? Is . . . how . . . ?"

Ashlin raised a contemptuous eyebrow. "Will you be finishing these questions, or should I start guessing?"

Pyrrha drew her wand with a trembling hand and began casting, mumbling incantations shakily under her breath. Her fear was confirmed, and it pierced her like a shard of ice in the heart. There was nothing there . . . but she could see Ashlin standing before her, as real as anything. Her hair—long and auburn, like Pyrrha's—even stirred in the breeze.

"Y-you're—you're a hallucination," Pyrrha said faintly.

 _"You're—you're—you're—"_ Ashlin mocked. "Of course I am, imbecile." Her voice dripped with loathing. "You watched me die, didn't you? Have you forgotten already?"

"No," Pyrrha whispered. Every detail of that moment was seared indelibly into her memory, and would remain so for the rest of her life.

"Good," Ashlin said. She vanished from sight and reappeared inches from Pyrrha's face. Wintry blue eyes filled her vision. "Never forget what you've done to me." Hearing her sister's voice channel such raw malevolence was beyond unsettling.

"You're not Ashlin." Pyrrha took a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. She concentrated on taking deep, steady breaths, attempting to quell the storm in her head—

 _"No!_ How _dare_ you try to shut me out!"

Pyrrha gasped as her cursed burn pulsed with agony, pain so potent she collapsed into a heap in the dirt. It felt like someone was bashing her exposed brain with a blazing fire poker, like molten metal pouring into her eyes. Something was clawing at her head. Seconds passed like hours as she writhed and screamed and cursed and babbled until, gradually, the pain receded, settling back into a more tolerable, but still excruciating rhythmic throbbing.

Panting roughly, Pyrrha opened her eyes to see her sister smiling down at her. "You won't ever try that again, will you?" Ashlin crooned, reaching down with a pale hand. Pyrrha felt icy fingers against her forehead.

She scrambled backwards across the dirt, her limbs like jelly. Her nails were wet with her own blood.

Ashlin's derisive laughter was just as incongruous as the rest of her malicious behavior. The hateful sound coming from her sister's mouth made Pyrrha's heart crack.

"You . . ." Pyrrha began hoarsely. What the hell was she?

A sound caught Pyrrha's ear, and Ashlin cocked her head at the same time. A chorus of howling wolves pierced the relative quiet of the night. As Pyrrha looked up through the steel canopy, she saw that the sky had begun to lighten, the stars dimming. It was approaching dawn. Whatever was happening to her had to wait. She had to get moving.

She stood and waved her wand down herself, cleansing her robes of dirt and blood. She gestured at her face, sealing the furrows she had carved there. Her robes had ripped where she splinched; a casual flick saw them restored. She found north with the Point Me Spell and oriented herself in the correct direction, then paused, considering placing a rebirth mark inside her makeshift shelter.

"Yes, _brilliant_ idea," came Ashlin's voice from behind her. "Return to the middle of the forest, where Morrigan's beasts will surround you. A flawless plan, that."

Pyrrha shook her throbbing head and raised her wand, bending away the steel trees in front of her, and she walked awkwardly through the gap, familiarizing herself with her wooden leg. After glancing back at her metal dome one last time, she flicked her wand again and her wooden limb became steel, no heavier than before.

"It's a nice bit of spellwork." Ashlin was suddenly there, ambling through the brush beside her. "I'm surprised you didn't muck it up."

Pyrrha remained silent, picking her way over thick roots with care. She cast out with her wand, sending a ring of pale light outward all around, hovering above her head like a giant halo. Insubstantial, it passed through trunks and branches as it drifted overhead. The first steps of her hike progressed without incident, but she braced herself for the distance to come; her path was long, chosen in a split-second, but free of the risk of collateral damage.

The scents of the forest seemed to cleanse her lungs. Among the saturated earth and decaying leaves, she thought she could detect a hint of something flowery in the air. Less pleasantly, the metallic smell of her blood still clung to her robes. She had neglected to disperse the smell quite on purpose; she hoped the wolves would find her.

The wolf pack of the Forbidden Forest was unique; the result of a moonlit union between transformed werewolves, they were of a kind with normal wolves, yet distinguishable by their superior intelligence and beauty. These wolves were familiar with Pyrrha and, more importantly, the Forbidden Forest; with luck, they would help expedite her trek through the woods.

"Yes, you're so very clever. Don't break your arm patting yourself on the back," Ashlin said. She stared unnervingly at Pyrrha, never checking her footing on the uneven forest floor. Ashlin scoffed. "Idiot, there's no footing to check. I'm a bloody delusion—this whole physical form business is for your benefit."

Pyrrha looked askance at her, not bothering to conceal her worry. This figment masquerading as her sister had unrestricted access to her surface thoughts, and the ability to cause her immense pain whenever it pleased, not to mention the thing's vindictive temperament. It was nothing like her sister—kind, playful, forgiving Ashlin, who looked at Pyrrha as if she could do no wrong even as she was abandoned. Pyrrha had had experiments to conduct, theories to chase, progress to make, and Ashlin had been left to summers in an empty house. And in the end, Pyrrha's advancements had counted for precisely nothing. Her incapacity had cost her sister's life. Sickening guilt-laden misery crawled through Pyrrha's insides to rest on her heart.

"I _am_ your sister." Ashlin broke into Pyrrha's black musings, grinning venomously. The burn pulsed. "I'm the sister you deserve. Yes," she said softly, "you'll be making things up to me for a long time to come."

An involuntary chill swept over Pyrrha as she studiously ignored the specter, gaze fixed on the foliage ahead. They covered ground in silence for a while, to the tune of the melodic chirps and trills of unseen birds somewhere high in the towering trees. Dawn began to break, and Pyrrha let her light spell fade as the sun's rays started to spill through the leaves. She cursed softly as her ersatz leg caught another knotted root.

"Why not take my broom and fly?" Ashlin asked with a smirk.

Pyrrha sighed. "I'm useless on a broom. Weaving between these trees would . . . would take me at least twice as long as walking."

"So fly above the trees." Ashlin's tone conveyed an implicit _you idiot_ at the end.

Pyrrha's heart lurched at the idea as she shook her head. "I'd be that much easier for Morrigan to spot."

Ashlin snorted. "And you think she relies on _sight_ to find you?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter; I'm making good time."

Ashlin chuckled, shooting Pyrrha a dark look. "Your estimations don't tend to pan out, though, do they?"

Pyrrha's heart and head throbbed in agonizing unison. She'd apparated straight to the house and told Ashlin to gather her possessions; she hadn't imagined it possible the witch would find them so quickly . . . if she'd moved Ashlin right away, then perhaps . . . Pyrrha's head pulsed again.

"We'll never know, will we?" Ashlin said. She smiled icily at Pyrrha, a baleful look in her eyes. "Why don't you tell me the real reason you won't fly?"

Pyrrha had a feeling Ashlin already knew. She kept her mouth firmly shut until pain lanced through her head, and she bent double, clutching at her scalp. "A-alright!" she said. "I'm—I'm afraid to fly!"

"You're afraid of _heights,"_ Ashlin corrected with a fiendish smile. "Rather stupid of you. What danger do heights pose to a witch, even incompetent as you are?"

"Fear isn't rational," Pyrrha ground out, rubbing her head.

"Shut it. Hear that?" Ashlin stopped pretending to walk and tilted her head. "Scuttling. An acromantula—a large one."

Pyrrha flicked her wand and found its location precisely, a distance away to her left, quickly approaching. Unconcerned, she surveyed the remainder of the surrounding forest, looking for loose clusters of life that could denote a wolf pack, but saw nothing in that vein. It was disappointing; the wolves were truly remarkable to witness.

"You'll be seeing them soon enough, I expect," Ashlin said. "With shiny new peepers." She laughed delightedly at Pyrrha's horrified expression.

The acromantula burst through the undergrowth in a flurry of limbs, pincers clicking ominously. It was twice the size of a muggle car, and much more repulsive; venom dripped from fangs the length of Pyrrha's forearm, and eight beady black eyes secured her in a hungry stare. Its spindly, furry legs stood taller than she did.

Pyrrha met the massive spider's gaze, struck by sudden inspiration. "Take me to your colony," she called out, "and I won't hurt you."

The acromantula made an outraged chittering sound and bore down on her, legs scuttling with a speed deceptive for their size; Pyrrha raised her wand, the picture of tranquility. The tip flashed a deep red.

The monster collapsed and flew into a fit of spasms; its legs flailed about in a blur as it writhed in agony, massive thorax kicking up clods of dirt in every direction. Tortured hissing escaped its disgusting maw, high and shrill. Pyrrha held the curse a little longer as it bucked and thrashed pitifully, then lowered her wand.

The acromantula twitched and seized, wracked with residual pain. Caked with dirt, its formidable body heaved as it drew quick breaths, emitting a series of odd, hissing wheezes. Gingerly, it rolled over and propped itself up on trembling legs.

Pyrrha leveled it with an even look. "Will you take me to your colony, or must I hurt you again?"

The beast shuddered. "I take . . . I take," it said with a voice like a knife against stone.

"Smart of you," Pyrrha said. "Remain still; I'm going to climb onto your back. If you attempt to bite me or throw me off, your death will come as slowly as the seasons turn. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the monster said. The monosyllabic response conveyed a remarkable undercurrent of rage and fright.

Pyrrha raised her wand again, conjuring a staircase leading up to the monster's back. It flinched violently, then froze, trembling in anticipation, but Pyrrha ignored it. She climbed the stairs, metal leg clanking annoyingly, and her heart skipped a beat as she leapt onto the acromantula's hairy back as gently as she could. It dipped a little before straightening up, turning and bearing her away without further ado.

She situated herself as comfortably as she was able, eyeing the monster carefully, her hand never leaving her wand. The overgrown spider navigated the forest with ease, infinitely more sure-footed and nimble than she had been, even after being subjected to torture. They seemed to glide through the foliage; as Pyrrha watched the trees pass by, she rather felt like she was riding a lumpy, hairy, odorous flying carpet.

As Pyrrha ducked under a low-hanging branch, a light tingling across her skin told her that they had passed into Hogwarts' outer protections. She doubted they would delay Morrigan for long, if at all; the enchantments around the perimeter weren't meant to turn away approaching magicals. It was a school, after all, not a fortress, though the charms throughout the castle itself told another story. With luck, that story involved a foiled Morrigan languishing outside indefinitely.

Ashlin appeared in front of Pyrrha, sitting cross-legged in midair. She remained there at a fixed point as the acromantula skittered along. Her face was set in a sardonic grin. "'Your death will come as slowly as the seasons turn,'" she repeated in an exaggerated, theatrical tone. "How dramatic of you—you should've been a thespian."

Pyrrha glared. "It helps to threaten in terms they comprehend." She wasn't certain why she bothered to engage with the fake.

"Oh, you're so very _fierce!"_ Ashlin said derisively. "Perhaps you should try scaring the crows away with that look of yours. Their hearts may flutter as they pluck the eyes from your head."

Pyrrha's stomach squirmed. She looked up sharply, eyes raking over the gaps in the canopy. She watched the birds carefully; they circled indolently in the pale morning sky, occasionally dipping out of sight. They didn't seem to be following her. Lower, the surrounding forest was quiet and static, strangely devoid of wildlife.

"Not so strange," Ashlin said. "We're quite close to the acromantula colony, after all." Pyrrha conceded her point with a small nod.

A few minutes later, Pyrrha began to notice black, furry shapes of varying sizes, under bushes and perched in trees, scuttling over distant roots or clinging to webs high above. They stared with beady eyes, mandibles flexing menacingly, but they made no move to attack . . . yet.

Pyrrha leaned forward, one hand gripping her mount's coarse fur, the other aiming her wand. She spoke at the monster's bulky head: "If your brethren get too close, warn them off. I'll have no trouble killing them if they attack me. Actually," she said, "tell them to follow us. I have something to say to the lot of you."

"Yes," the monster hissed with barely disguised hostility.

The acromantula hissed and clicked as it passed its brothers and sisters. They returned the chittering speech in kind, falling into line behind Pyrrha. Their peculiar procession steadily swelled as they ventured further into acromantula territory; the air soon drummed with the patter of countless slender limbs. The trees were hung with numerous wide-spun webs, each one large enough to ensnare several quidditch teams, and they quickly became so thick that the swarm was forced to split up, flowing around obstacles like a series of revolting tributaries.

Pyrrha scanned the branches and webs above warily, wand at the ready. The webs overhead were so densely woven the sunlight was nearly filtered out completely, throwing the surrounding forest into a dim twilight. Acromantulas followed from the trees, leaping from branch to web to trunk with disconcerting agility. There was hardly anything not covered in silky white webbing now, and Pyrrha could see the lip of a gigantic pit ahead, lined with clusters of pasty white eggs the size of quaffles.

A particularly reckless acromantula flung itself at Pyrrha from a nearby tree; with two lazy waves of her wand the beast was suspended helplessly in the air, squealing and spitting as it burned to death. There was an outburst of furious hissing and clicking, but the horde made no further advances.

"They're cowed rather easily," Ashlin observed with contempt.

"They're not cowed at all," Pyrrha said quietly. "They're presenting their patriarch with an offering of prey. They'll wait for the word before tearing me apart."

Ashlin snickered. "But they'd prefer to carry you in their jaws, rather than on their back." She leaned back and cast a bewildered look around at the deadly mass. "Do they all expect to get a piece of you?"

Pyrrha hummed, still watching the high places. "Me, and those who are trampled to death in the feeding frenzy."

"Lovely."

Pyrrha's mount crested the lip of the depression, conveying her smoothly down the slope toward an acromantula with greying fur. It was a colossal thing, with fangs of a height with Pyrrha, glistening with deadly fluid. Even from her perch atop the subdued spider, the grey monstrosity loomed at least a dozen feet over her, its trunklike legs spanning a width that might reach from one side of Hogwarts' Entrance Hall to the other.

All at once, the bowl-like valley echoed with deafening silence. Thousands of malevolent black eyes appraised Pyrrha from all sides as she was brought to a halt in front of the elder. She stood and hopped off the spider adroitly; it scuttled backward and melted into the teeming, twitching swarm barely ten feet behind her. Pyrrha stared up at the monster without a care; it was far from the most dangerous being she'd ever dealt with, even in the past twenty-four hours.

The grey acromantula's pincers snapped thoughtfully, the morbid sound echoing impressively in the valley. Its titanic form rested on the forest floor in the midst of a nestlike arrangement of webs. Dozens of egg clusters dotted the network of dense webbing. The beast shifted, creating a noise akin to a landslide.

"You encroach upon our domain . . . by your own free will . . ." Its voice was somehow deep and shrill at the same time, a dry rasp that scraped against Pyrrha's skull. "Before my children feast . . . tell me . . . Why?"

Pyrrha drew her wand and performed a quick series of twirls and flicks; the nest of webs split apart and twined into dense cords; they wrapped themselves tightly around the elder's body, weaving through its hairy legs, securing it firmly in place. It called out a furious shriek and the acromantulas surged as one, leaping and scrambling over each other, pincers clicking eagerly. Pyrrha swung her wand viciously around, and a howling blast of wind sent spiders spinning away in all directions; she followed the motion through, whipping her arm around again and again, and the gale became a bitter cold winter wind swirling around her, flinging away another wave of lunging spiders. The temperature began to drop.

The elder struggled against its bonds in vain as Pyrrha stood in the eye of the storm, stirring the atmosphere; the mass of spiders struggled towards her, more sluggish every moment as the cold crept in. The chilling cyclone became suffused with snow and hail, a blinding white tempest of ice, and it roared outward at Pyrrha's direction and grew into a glacial barrage that swept through the swarm, hurling the nearest spiders through the arctic air like toys. The air was a downpour of sleet; it shot like a hailstorm of bullets and assailed the horde, clinging to flesh and fur, compacting itself into thick ice against their bodies. Every sound was torn away by the screaming wind.

The swarm had nearly fallen still in the midst of the violent squall. Pyrrha swung her arm around once more, and the wind wailed as the relentless blizzard swelled further, wrapping the valley in a deathly embrace. The elder was stiff, coated in thick frost, and Pyrrha could barely make out the legions of its children through sheets of white, a grim collective of dark shapes encased in opaque ice throughout the clearing, from the center to the edge of the storm, frozen through to the last.

Pyrrha let her arm fall, and the blizzard was snuffed out in an instant. Her ears rang in the sudden silence. She spun in a slow circle, steady breaths fogging the air as she took in the aftermath; a final blanket of snow floated in the air like stars, falling softly upon countless icebound acromantulas posed in various positions of retreat. The intricate tangles of webbing around the valley were encrusted in glittering ice that coated every strand and tapered out into spiky, crystalline patterns. They were strangely beautiful, like magnified snowflakes.

She swept her wand in a wide arc. A booming shockwave of air burst outward in a wave of concussive force, creating a cascade of discordant shattering as it hurtled through the frozen horde, sending innumerable shards and chips of ice flying in all directions. She turned and set her wand on the massive nest, blasting the many clusters of frozen eggs into tiny fragments. They tinkled as they blew away.

Pyrrha's eyes fell again onto the elder acromantula. It was almost completely concealed, covered in ice, snow and frozen webs. She raised her wand again; it spat a torrent of fire that licked at the ice, thawing the beast in under a minute. She set its carcass ablaze, whisking away the foul smoke with a twirl of the wrist. As the hulking corpse slowly burned, Pyrrha lamented the loss of so much valuable acromantula venom, but there hadn't been time . . .

Time was wasting. Mindful of the forest, she snuffed out the flames with a twitch of the arm. She studied the charred remains, little more than a heap of melted, blackened flesh with eight legs stuck out awkwardly. Satisfied that Morrigan couldn't raise it back to haunt her, she spun on her heel and headed for the light incline of the valley, back the way she came.

Her low-heeled boots crunched jagged shards of ice as she strode through the snow. She melted a path for herself up the slope, pausing briefly at the top of the valley's lip to glance back at her handiwork. From where she stood, the former colony looked like an encompassing snow globe, a self-contained, frozen tundra sparkling with ice in the middle of the summertime forest.

Pyrrha turned away and consulted her wand on the location of true north, orienting herself towards Hogwarts. She set a steady pace, gait still slightly awkward on her surrogate leg, and she trudged over drifts and banks and broken branches. As snow gave way to dirt, a flash of deep blue in a patch of white caught her eye; Pyrrha vaguely registered hoofbeats approaching as she knelt in the snow and plucked a half-buried stone from the drift. It was smoothly polished and small as a fingertip, a crack snaking down the center of one side, which obscured a vaguely familiar marking.

 _"Hey! Pay attention, halfwit. Centaurs headed our way."_ Ashlin's voice sounded from inside her head.

Pyrrha stood and brushed at her knees, dropping the odd stone into the pouch in her robes as a small herd of centaurs galloped between webs and trees, slowing to a canter as they moved to surround her. Most of them wielded bows, nocked and cautiously half-drawn, though aimed at the ground.

Pyrrha crossed her arms, her fingers within close reach of her wand tucked into its pocket. "Yes?" she said, tapping her steel foot impatiently.

The metal limb drew several suspicious glances: her burn, looks of revulsion. One of the centaurs, a male with lengthy black hair and beard, trotted forward, looking down at her with narrowed eyes. "The forest is not yours to walk as you please, human. What are you doing here?"

"Walking as I please, centaur." Ashlin cackled in Pyrrha's head as the centaur's nostrils flared. "The forest is, in turn, not yours to police. Why do you bar my way?"

The black-maned centaur's fingers flexed on the handle of his bow. "One of our number reported a snowstorm in the middle of acromantula territory, and we arrive minutes later to find only you—not a single one of Aglaeca's children in sight. Tell me, interloper," he said, "what have you done to them?" Pyrrha noticed several armed centaurs subtly adjusting their grips.

She snatched her wand and twisted her wrist; the centaurs reared in surprise as their bows were ripped from their hands, hovering in front of her as she splintered them with a flick. She let them fall to the dirt in a pile of kindling.

"That," she said.

The centaurs bridled with rage, kicking up dirt with their hooves. The black haired male loomed over her, red-faced. "You've murdered an entire colony of acromantulas, upsetting the forest's natural balance, and you have the gall to attack us directly afterwards?" His voice trembled with fury. He, like the others, seemed to be barely restraining himself from retaliating; they all cast frequent, worried glances at her wand.

"I haven't attacked you. Drawn bows make me nervous. Here," Pyrrha said, waving her wand over the remains of the bows; the splinters flew back together neatly. She transfigured the earth beneath the centaurs in the same moment. "As for the acromantulas—it was necessary. That's all I have time to say. I apologize." She didn't feel sorry in the slightest as she pointed her wand at the male; a warm, euphoric feeling shot up her arm and into her head. His wrathful expression fell blank. At her mental direction, he knelt, allowing her to clamber up onto his back.

The circle of centaurs bellowed with outrage, but found themselves securely anchored in a thick quagmire of mud. The black-haired one followed Pyrrha's commands readily, leaping through a gap between two panicked, thrashing centaurs and galloping off through the trees. Pyrrha kept a firm one-handed grip on his long hair as they rode.

 _"Not very fond of centaurs, I see,"_ Ashlin said, sounding amused.

 _I detest the arrogant,_ Pyrrha thought back.

 _"You're quite arrogant yourself, you know."_

 _That's true._

 _"You're also astoundingly lazy. You just can't resist catching a ride through the forest—acromantulas, centaurs, whatever it takes, as long as you're not walking . . . or flying."_

Pyrrha shot an annoyed glance vaguely upwards. _Riding is much faster. I'm trying to stay alive._

 _"If you were really trying, you'd fly. We'd be at the castle by now."_

 _But I wouldn't have thought to exterminate the acromantulas that way,_ Pyrrha thought triumphantly.

 _"Well, that hardly matters. You don't plan to fight Morrigan here on the grounds of Hogwarts."_

 _It's one less horde of beasts for her to send after me._

Pyrrha straightened up as she thought of the wolves again. She was near the edge of the forest, where they were unlikely to dwell, but she cast the _Belua Revelio_ anyway. She surveyed the area, taking in dozens of scattered life forms shining through the foliage, and—there! A large gathering of sparks: it was likely either the wolf pack or a group of old Hagrid's thestral herd, and they appeared too low to the ground for the latter.

The moment Pyrrha thought it, the centaur abruptly changed direction, cantering through the underbrush towards where the sparks of light had been. She cast again, and watched as their sparks began to move away, no doubt hearing the centaur's drumming hoofbeats. The centaur skidded to a stop and Pyrrha dismounted, leaving him staring blankly forward as she dashed around the undergrowth. Their sparks were closer, but still retreating.

Pyrrha stopped, cupped her hands around her mouth and howled long and loud, doing her best to imitate a wolf's cry.

 _"You failed,"_ Ashlin said, snickering. _"You sounded like a wolf being molested by a dementor—but I suppose that makes your distinctive call all the more recognizable."_

After a few beats, a chorus of answering howls rang in the air. Pyrrha howled again and waited. She cast her gaze over the brush, listening intently. A bird trilled, answered by another trill further off. There was a stretch of relative silence, a gentle breeze sliding through the foliage in the background. A branch snapped. Leaves crunched. A bush rustled as a lupine head poked around it.

"Hello there," Pyrrha said softly, stowing her wand and sitting on her heels in the dirt. "Remember me?"

Pyrrha sat motionless as near a dozen wolves crept out from between the flora all around, stalking around her, watching her intently with gorgeous silver eyes. Their silvery-white fur shimmered like liquid moonlight in the dappled sunshine that snuck past the leaves. Wet black noses sniffed at the air curiously. Pyrrha nearly jumped as a wolf came around from behind her, wiry limbs moving in near silence across the leaf-littered ground. It turned and stood before her, head cocked to the side.

Pyrrha stood slowly, looking around at the gathered pack, a vague sense of warmth inside despite everything. They were beautiful.

 _"And here we are again,"_ Ashlin said. _"Surrounded by dangerous beasts for the third time today, and it's not even noon."_

"It's—It's nice to see you all again," Pyrrha said, still slightly anxious; they hadn't sat down yet.

The wolf in front of her stepped forward and sniffed at her clothes, making what Pyrrha thought was a curious sound in its throat.

"Yes, I've—I've had quite a day. That's why I'm here. I've got something import—important to tell you."

The wolf yipped quietly, stepping back. It turned away and padded back among its brethren, turned back to her, and sat. As if on cue, the other wolves sat down as well. Relief flowed through Pyrrha as they stared at her expectantly.

Pyrrha knew they were more intelligent than normal wolves, but she didn't know to what extent, beyond that they seemed to understand her simple sentences. She hoped she could get the message across.

"There's a bad witch coming. Soon," Pyrrha said, rubbing at her cursed burn subconsciously as a dull pulse of pain went through her head. "She's going to hurt you all. You can't kill her."

The wolves uttered menacing growls, fur bristling. Their eyes were locked on Pyrrha as their claws kneaded the dirt.

"You need to—need to flee. Run away. Leave the forest."

The wolves shot upright and started barking, defiant and livid. The one in the center that had sniffed her before—Pyrrha took it to be the pack leader—turned and, astonishingly, began barking back at them. The uproar that followed was resounding as a few wolves abruptly switched sides, and the woods were a clamor of dissent. Pyrrha surreptitiously drew her wand as their baying escalated in volume.

"Please, just trust—trust me, it's the only way to—"

A wolf swiped a paw across the leader's muzzle with a snarl. The attack incited a series of outraged barks, and the leader lunged, the other wolves following suit, and brother fought brother in a rolling, leaping flurry of silver fur. The air resounded with guttural growls and pitiful yelps; blood splattered across the ground as they slashed at each other.

Pyrrha watched helplessly, torn on whether or not to intervene. The tide of the melee suddenly turned; outnumbered, the leader's allies turned on him, and the pack bore down on the alpha in a primal frenzy. Pyrrha thrust her wand, sending the wolves tumbling across the dirt. She pulled the alpha across the ground to her feet with a yanking motion while the rest of the pack regained their footing and charged, barking savagely.

She stepped over the prone form of the alpha and swept her wand out; a wall of fire erupted from the earth, and the wolves slid to a halt, baying and howling defiantly. Their eyes glowed eerily in the firelight.

The cursed burn throbbed as Pyrrha urged the crackling flames forward. The wolves backed away with tensed bodies at an angle, still uttering a clamor of booming barks, less angry and more wary. She flicked her wand and the flames flared to new heights, burning quickly across the ground with a rush of fluttering air; the wolves turned tail and fled into the woods. Their howls slowly faded into the distance until the forest's gentle ambiance reclaimed the silence, deceptively peaceful.

Pyrrha let the flames die after a minute of vigilance and spun around, dashing to the alpha's side. It was covered in weeping gashes, but the worst wound was at the throat; the flesh was torn ragged from a bite that bled freely. The wolf's head lay in a puddle of its own blood, eyelids slitted.

"It's—it's alright! I'm going to fix it," Pyrrha said, running her wand over the wound. As she cast, tracing the bite repeatedly, the flow of blood seemed to slow a little, but it continued to gush forth. The wound remained stubbornly open; her spell was failing to seal it. The wolf panted shallow, gurgling breaths, whimpering softly.

Pyrrha groaned, still tracing the bite. She pressed her other hand against the flow. Warm blood soaked her fingers and spilled in between. "Damn it, damn it, what . . . ?"

It struck Pyrrha then—these wolves were descended from werewolves; these injuries were cursed. "Ah!" she said, and she yanked open her pouch—quickly replacing her hand on the steadily weeping wound—and summoned a brown vial of dittany. She unstoppered it with a jab of her wand and set it aside. She cast _Accio_ again, but nothing flew out of the pouch; she had no powdered silver.

Pyrrha flicked her wand at her neck; a necklace snapped off, and she held it suspended in the air before her. It was a simple chain of thin silver, with a small, oval emerald dangling from the end. A gift from her mother after her sorting. She waved her wand and watched the necklace grind to dust in the air with a pang of sorrow, but she knew her mother would approve. The emerald dropped into the dirt.

Keeping the silver powder suspended, Pyrrha waved her wand at the dittany, and a measure of the brown liquid rose from the bottle, floating formlessly. Pyrrha twirled her wrist; the cloud of silver powder mixed with the murky dittany, swirling around and forming a sickly yellow paste, which she hastily directed at the wound on the wolf's throat. It plastered over the bite, stemming the flow of blood. Pyrrha resumed casting, tracing across the wound with steady and precise repetition, over and over. Gradually, the flesh wove itself back together, although a scar remained.

She siphoned off excess paste and began to cover the most serious slashes along the body, which had stopped rising and falling. The wolf wasn't breathing.

Pyrrha's heart raced as she stood back and raised her arm. She waved her wand and felt an unpleasant tugging sensation in her chest, down her arm to the wand's tip, which oozed her own blood into the air; it undulated gracefully in a cloud of crimson, like a drop of ink in water. Pyrrha gestured, and the blood wafted through the air over the wolf and sank, seeping into the myriad open lacerations across its silvery body. The wolf's lithe frame shuddered.

 _"Will it work on an animal?"_ Ashlin asked dubiously.

"I don't know!" Pyrrha snapped, blinking away a bout of dizziness. She jabbed her wand at the wolf's chest. A red light struck, and the wolf's body jolted, then fell still. She cast again; the animal's legs jerked, and it stilled. Again. It jolted and stilled.

Again. Again.

Pyrrha's heart sank like a stone.

Again. Again.

The wolf shuddered, and its chest rose sharply, fell as it exhaled. It breathed again.

Pyrrha let out an astonished laugh, bubbling with relief. The wolf's eyes fluttered open and looked at her tiredly. It didn't protest as she knelt back down and stroked its beautiful head, still slick with blood.

"You had me worried, there," Pyrrha said, returning to sealing the gashes that still bled on the wolf's back and chest. "But I think you're going to be okay now."

The wolf made a small noise of acknowledgement and closed its eyes again with a sigh. Pyrrha watched it carefully as she methodically sealed as many slashes as she could with the available paste. The wolf stayed still throughout, but its chest continued to rise and fall. As Pyrrha closed the final wound, she realized the wolf had fallen asleep. She sighed contentedly as she looked down at the creature, elated that she had been able to save it.

But what now? It had been cast out of the pack, for defending her, no less. Morrigan would arrive within hours at the longest, Pyrrha was certain. It wouldn't be safe in the Forbidden Forest, and it hadn't the strength to escape in time on its own. Pyrrha bit her lip. She would have to take it with her to Hogwarts.

Ashlin appeared standing over her, eyes a mirror to the clear blue patches of sky past the treetops. She had an eyebrow arched. "You don't look thrilled enough about your new pet—he's _gorgeous._ It's a he, by the way. I can see dangly bits."

Pyrrha stood and vanished the blood and dirt from herself. "He's not a pet. I'm just taking care of him for a while."

"Lie to yourself if you must, but you can't lie to me." Pyrrha's burn throbbed. Ashlin grinned down at the wolf, then gazed up at the sky through the canopy, shading her eyes with a hand. Caught by a ray beaming down through a break in the branches, her auburn hair shined like fire in the sun. "You really need to get a move on. Despite appearances, I don't want you dead." She put a peculiar stress on 'dead'. "Don't forget Mum's emerald," she said, then vanished.

Pyrrha stared at where Ashlin had been for a moment, then bent down and plucked the emerald from the grass, cleaning it with a charm and dropping it into her pouch. The black-haired centaur, still enthralled, cantered through the woods to Pyrrha at her mental nudging. He gathered the wolf gently in his arms, face still a blank mask, and knelt as Pyrrha sat astride him again.

As they galloped toward Hogwarts, Pyrrha pondered the dark mirror of Ashlin. It was clear the hallucinations were connected to the curse that Morrigan had struck her with—the targeted activation of the burn's excruciating pain when Ashlin was displeased was evidence enough of that; it was like being struck all over again. What Pyrrha didn't understand was—

 _"Too many things to list,"_ Ashlin said.

Pyrrha huffed with frustration. _Why you?_ she thought. _Why am I having hallucinations of my sister?_

 _"Well, that's rather obvious,"_ Ashlin said. _"A curse fried your brain. You're actually a drooling vegetable in St. Mungo's right now."_

 _You know what I meant. Why Ashlin, and not Mum and Dad, or—?_

 _"You are just the deepest well of stupid questions, aren't you? You stood by and allowed that rotting bitch to murder me,"_ Ashlin said, her voice turning lower and more vehement with every word, and Pyrrha's burn throbbed, each pulse more painful than the last. _"You must have some shred of humanity left, however, because you feel guilty. That's why the curse brought me back."_

"I did not _stand by and allow_ anything!" Pyrrha said, so appalled she forgot to think her response. "I fought as hard as I could and she—"

 _"Did you?"_ Ashlin said, voice dripping with contempt. _"Or did you fight with half a heart, Pyrrha, hoping Morrigan would rid you of your irksome little sister?"_

"That is utter madness!" Pyrrha's burn was pulsing like an agonizing second heartbeat. This delusion of her sister might know her mind, but that didn't mean everything it said about her was true. It had flashes of the real Ashlin—albeit darkly twisted—but now, something _other_ had leaked in.

 _"Well done,"_ Ashlin snarled. Pyrrha gasped and clutched at her head as her burn seared like molten magma poured over her face, the pain nearly toppling her from the centaur's back. _"You've deduced that a curse is dangerous."_

Pyrrha clung to the centaur's shoulders as she recovered, vision swimming with tears of pain. She drew deep, shuddering breaths as the pain receded little by little. Wiping at her eyes, she looked around listlessly at the sunlit forest as it passed, struck by nature's serene beauty, and how wrong it seemed at that moment. In the space of a night, Pyrrha's own world had turned infinitely more terrible, more a hellish nightmare than waking life. She inhaled slowly, exerting her will on her chaotic emotions.

A thin bar of greenish gold shone brilliantly between the trees ahead; the sun-soaked lawns of Hogwarts peeked in beyond the edge of the forest, which was fast approaching under the centaur's power. Pyrrha clenched her knees as the centaur leapt over a burbling stream and burst through clustered bushes to emerge onto the Hogwarts grounds. The morning sun warmed Pyrrha's back as she took in the castle, a monolith of stone set upon a cliff, lofty spires nearly piercing the scattered drifts of white clouds in the sky. Ancient stone walls, turrets, and towers safeguarded millennia of magical history.

It was here at Hogwarts she would find refuge, and prepare to unravel the threads of secrecy spun around Morrigan. She would rectify her mistake; the Nightmare Queen would die one way or another, even if it cost Pyrrha everything. She owed it to her sister. The curse smoldered.

In the distance, the hoarse cawing of crows resonated across the air.


	2. Chapter 2

The centaur's hooves drummed against the grass in a full gallop. It veered to the side abruptly at Pyrrha's second thought, bolting for the gamekeeper's cabin that sat at the forest's edge. No smoke rose from its chimney and no light flickered in its windows, but Pyrrha had to be certain. She glanced back at the shivering black cloud of feathers and beaks; it marred the sky above the distant Black Lake, the crows' throaty cries carrying soundly over its glassy surface.

The black-maned centaur trampled through a pumpkin patch, pulpy orange guts splattering the ground as it reared to a halt at Hagrid's front door, which Pyrrha promptly blasted off its hinges with a bang. The hut's rustic interior was layered with dust—as she'd hoped, Hagrid was gone, presumably until the next term. She sent the door flying back into place with a swish. The centaur turned and resumed its mad dash for Hogwarts' doors, cradling the unconscious wolf in its arms like a large, furry child.

Morrigan's crows were over the center of the lake now; they and the lake slid out of view behind the castle as the centaur angled for the tremendous oaken double doors, which stood imposingly over a low set of wide, paved stone steps. Pyrrha brandished her wand, aim jostled by the centaur's movements; her spell struck the doors, and they shifted, groaning lightly as they swung inward with all the speed of a flobberworm.

The air swelled with harsh squawks and cackles. Pyrrha's head snapped up; the murderous cloud soared over Hogwarts, flowing around towers and spires while they cawed as if even an instant of silence was death. They plunged into a dive as one, a many-throated entity of dreadful purpose, their unnatural yellow eyes gleaming with hunger. Pyrrha's wand flitted in a blur; a silvery spell blossomed, radiating outward across the grounds and over the doors until it encapsulated the grand entrance, surface swirling like a soap bubble.

As the centaur clattered up the stone steps the crows dashed themselves violently against the barrier, heedless of harm to their decayed bodies. The stench of rot oppressed the air like a foul blanket. The crows screamed like the possessed creatures they were, tearing at the spell with beak and claw, blotting out the sky with their numbers as the centaur bore Pyrrha and the wolf through the castle doors.

Pyrrha dismounted and directed her wand at the doors, and they responded, creaking as they pulled back inch by inch. Through the shrinking gap, Pyrrha saw a humanoid body in the midst of the bloodthirsty flock. It was dead; rotting, grey-green skin clung to an emaciated frame, barely covered in tattered remnants of clothing. Missing patches of flesh exposed yellow bones and raw, decomposing muscle and sinew. A swollen grey tongue lolled grotesquely out of an open throat; the thing's lower jaw was gone. Empty, shriveled eye sockets glowed from within, a sinister yellow light.

Morrigan raised a withered arm, brandishing a long, knotted staff of dark wood. Pyrrha's charm around the grand doorway dissolved into nothing. The gap between doors was a mere foot; from her wand Pyrrha spun an intricate web across the entrance that clung from wall to wall. Crows poured through the gap in a writhing tide of filth, and they were snared in the web, flapping and biting helplessly against the sticky strands. The doors were inches apart; Morrigan threw her degraded head back, putrid tongue swaying, and unleashed a piercing wail like the manifold lamentations of humanity's untold departed souls—cut off as the doors boomed shut.

The ululation resonated in Pyrrha's head after the entrance closed, and her body was scraped by thousands of icy needles, her heart threatened to burst from her ribs; the cry was a reckoning of Pyrrha's most wicked thoughts as her forgotten grave begged for fulfillment; it was the howl of the wind as she plummeted through a yawning void to sink into the indifferent arms of oblivion. Pyrrha's vision flickered as she fought the curse, and the world tilted under her; she drew her mind together with a tremendous effort, purging all thought and feeling until the echoing faded, leaving behind only blank serenity. The curse's suffocating pressure slipped away from her like a severed noose.

Gasping for air, Pyrrha flicked her wrist, sending great wooden beams crashing down across the doors. She could feel a tingle in the atmosphere as they fell, calling the defenses of Hogwarts into action. She staggered back, and her body flooded with relief as she spun her wand at the conjured web, wrapping it snugly around the captured crows. They twitched and struggled silently in the dense cocoon in a final, feeble protest as Pyrrha incinerated them with a spout of fire.

The silent hall absorbed Pyrrha's panting. She endeavored to slow her speeding heart, savoring each lungful of air like it was her last as adrenaline and fear trickled out of her. At length her breathing evened, and she turned to her companions. The centaur stood like a statue, still holding the unconscious wolf. Evidently, the Imperius Curse had suppressed the centaur's mind enough to protect him from Morrigan's spell. He knelt and gently laid the wolf down on the stone floor. The wolf's chest still rose and fell peacefully.

Ashlin stood where she hadn't a moment ago. "Well!" she said. "You cut it rather close there, didn't you? I told you, you should've flown. That was a disaster."

Pyrrha knew it. Not only had she escaped by the skin of her teeth, she had put everyone at Hogwarts at unnecessary risk by not arriving ahead of Morrigan. If some early riser had happened to be out on the grounds, or in the Entrance Hall, they would have been overwhelmed by Morrigan's cursed wail.

Ashlin scoffed. "Don't pretend to care about anyone but yourself. You're already pondering how one might emulate that curse." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "It does seem quite useful."

Faint clacking of a woman's shoes on stone sounded from the top of the marble staircase opposite the doors. A familiar golden-haired witch descended the stairs with increasing urgency, her delighted smile faltering in favor of a horrified expression.

Pyrrha's heart sank. It was Daisy, her dearest and only friend. Her mind flashed back to the forgotten letter from a few days past; Daisy had applied to, and been accepted for, the position of Potions Professor at Hogwarts, a job she'd coveted for years. Pyrrha had brought Morrigan straight to her. The burn seared her skull, a poisonous feeling in her stomach. She wouldn't let it end the same way.

"Pyrrha!" Daisy said, hardly sparing the others a glance as she ran the last dozen steps. "My God—what happened to you? Your head!" She tilted Pyrrha by the chin, scanning the burn with wide brown eyes.

Pyrrha snapped herself out of her thoughts. "We'll have time for discussion later. I need your help."

"Anything," Daisy said at once, still examining the burn critically. She drew her wand and raised it to the scar, murmuring—

 _"No!_ Stop her!" Ashlin said. Fire spilled into Pyrrha, dripping down from her skull into her body. She jerked back with a sharp intake of breath.

Daisy yelped, lifting her wand away. "I—I hadn't even cast—are you alright? I'm so sorry!"

"I'm fine, just—just don't try that again," Pyrrha said, rubbing the area around the burn. The scorching pain was fading lifetimes slower than it had manifested. "Listen to me. The witch that did this—Morrigan—she's here, outside Hogwarts. She's after my blood."

Daisy's eyes widened further. "You couldn't . . . ?"

Pyrrha shook her head bitterly, disgust and guilt writhing in her chest. "I tried. I failed . . . I . . ." _I couldn't save Ash._ She tried to speak the words, but they stuck in her throat.

"You certainly did fail. Miserably," Ashlin added in a low voice. The cursed burn throbbed. "What good is your life if you can't protect what makes it worth living?" The source of Ashlin's virulent tone shifted as she vanished, becoming a cold whisper at Pyrrha's neck. _"You're a waste."_

Pyrrha stared blankly at the space Ashlin had occupied for a moment, then turned to face a worried Daisy. "I need you to round up everyone in the castle; Hogwarts needs to be locked down entirely. No outside communication. If the Ministry gets wind of what's happening here, it'll complicate things, and likely cost lives that could otherwise be spared."

Daisy nodded, looking alarmed. "I'll call an emergency staff meeting. What do I do when they get there?"

Pyrrha thought for a moment. "If you think you can, incapacitate them somehow. No—forget that. Stall them until I arrive. I'll be right behind you."

Daisy nodded again, mouth set in a determined line. She turned on her heel and climbed the stairs, casting out with her wand as she went. Several silvery-white wolverines sprang forth, clawed feet treading empty air as they ascended the stairs, splitting up down each end of the corridor above.

Pyrrha turned and strode to the centaur, who remained motionless beside the dozing wolf. She directed her wand at the centaur's expressionless face; a tide of foreign thoughts, feelings, and images washed over her. She found the problematic memories and reshaped them, artfully brushing away their encounter in the forest and the events that followed. Pyrrha forged more suitable memories in her imagination, sowing sensory details supplemented by the connection to the centaur's mind. She impressed the crafted recollections upon the centaur until they became the ingrained truth, the only past that had ever been. The centaur blinked.

Pyrrha released her mental grip on the Imperius Curse as she knelt to assess the wolf, stowing her wand quickly. "Wouldn't you say, Crath?" she said, using the name gleaned from the centaur's mind.

"I . . . what?" Crath blinked and shook his head, dazed. "My thoughts were with the stars. Repeat your question."

"I said, I would imagine your people will forgive you under the circumstances, yes? It was within your own interests to help me, after all. We couldn't have escaped without each other."

"Ah . . . it could be so. We needed one another, as you say." Crath scowled at the stone floor. "But I shouldn't have abandoned them as I have. I'm needed out there."

"You're not," Pyrrha said, stroking the wolf's soft head. "There's nothing you or anyone can do about Morrigan right now. With luck, your herd will lay low and be overlooked."

The wolf's breathing quickened. It opened its silvery eyes and bolted upright, fur bristling as it swung its head around and back, taking in the castle. A growl rumbled in its throat and passed between bared fangs as its gaze fell on Crath.

"Please, be calm," Pyrrha said softly, still kneeling. "I brought you here; it was the only safe place. The evil witch is outside." She glanced at Crath, who had edged back, looking uneasy. "The centaur—Crath—he helped us escape. He won't hurt you."

The wolf fell silent and stared steadily at Crath, jaws slightly parted. It sat perfectly still, coiled like a spring. After a tense minute, it huffed and snapped its jaws together with an audible _clack,_ turning away dismissively. It padded over to Pyrrha and sniffed at her, wet nose tickling as its tongue licked once at her unscarred cheek.

Pyrrha smiled, reaching out with a tentative hand. She ran her fingers gently through the pale fur at the wolf's neck. "How are you feeling? Better?"

The wolf yipped quietly and sat before her, allowing the contact with dignified indifference.

Pyrrha let her hand fall. "We'll be here a while, I'm afraid. I'll need to call you something. May I give you a name?"

The wolf huffed hot breath and gave a halfhearted yip, as if to say, _if you must._

Pyrrha stood. Her mind began whirring with options, sorted and considered, dismissed and reconsidered. It had to be something strong, no longer than two syllables. Her brain skipped through half-remembered histories. A human name, for such a noble animal? No. Mythological stories had always been an interest of Pyrrha's. A name from legend suited the wolf, she decided. His striking silver-white coat shined like burnished snow, and it drew her thoughts to the Norse tales, the myth of—

"Hati." The wolf that follows the moon. "How's that?"

The wolf—Hati—grunted impatiently. _Whatever._

"Very well." Pyrrha turned to Crath, who watched her with an odd expression. "Yes?" she said expectantly.

"It is . . . unusual to witness the moonborn behave so amiably," he said, shifting uneasily as his voice called Hati's attention back to him. "My herd has attempted to communicate with them over the years, but you appear to have surpassed our progress in a single day."

Pyrrha hummed. "We've more pertinent matters to discuss. You heard what I said about securing the castle, correct?"

"I did . . . and I don't see why we should hide this from your Ministry," Crath said, eyes narrowed.

"I do. It's not up for discussion." Pyrrha drew her wand and walked toward the doors, the thick barriers of enchanted wood that stood between her and death.

Crath's nostrils flared as Pyrrha passed. "They may be able to help. You cannot know that they would fail."

Pyrrha stopped opposite the doors and ran her free hand down the smooth oak. It was warm to the touch, and myriad enchantments tickled at her fingers like electrified blades of grass. "You presume to know the Ministry's capabilites better than a witch?" she said.

 _"Or stunning lack thereof,"_ Ashlin said.

Crath made an irritated noise. "Clearly you're more knowledgeable than I about this situation—or you act that way, at the least."

"Then don't argue." Pyrrha glanced back and conjured a wide black curtain with a twirl of the wrist; it stretched across the hall between her and Crath, hanging unsupported in the air.

"What are you contriving back there?" came Crath's suspicious voice. Soft clopping echoed off the walls.

"Hati! Make certain our friend Crath stays on that side of the curtain, if you please," Pyrrha called out. Hati barked eagerly in affirmative, and the clopping stopped abruptly.

She turned back to the door and stepped away, raised her wand, and made a careful, complex series of movements. The familiar pulling sensation in her chest was like brushing elbows with death; the skin on her neck prickled as her blood welled from her wand, drifting in the air in a macabre red cloud. At another gesture the blood swirled, gliding forward peacefully. As the cloud approached the beam set across the doors, a sharp sizzling noise cut the air, followed by a burst of light. The blood hissed as it burned, becoming pungent black smoke that billowed up and away from the doors. A sickly sweet smell tainted the air.

Pyrrha whisked away the smoke and fumes with a spell, disappointed, but unsurprised. After learning what she could from feeling the door's magical underpinnings, she'd anticipated her spell would likely be repelled, but hoped that the esoteric nature of blood spells would be enough to circumvent the castle's defenses. The blood sanction was the strongest protective enchantment she knew. It had been worth the attempt, at least.

She frowned to herself as she stared up at the vaulted ceiling without seeing. Someone, likely one of the four founders of Hogwarts, had enchanted the castle entrance against manipulation by blood magic. The existence of such protection in the ancient fortress was interesting new information, if unsurprising; it was evidence that the practice of blood-fueled spellcasting stretched further back in history than her accumulated knowledge could corroborate.

 _"It could've been added later,"_ Ashlin said. _"Could've been yesterday. That flimsy twit Bellecote, I bet. He's always had it out for you."_

"He's not so talented," Pyrrha murmured. "In any case, I felt the enchantment; it was . . . deep in the bones of the castle. Cast during the founding, or shortly after. I'm certain." She rubbed at the dull ache in her heart, withdrew a Blood-Replenishing Potion from her pouch and sipped it, suppressing a grimace at the bitter taste as she replaced the brew.

As an afterthought, Pyrrha charmed the suits of armor flanking the doorway, and they clanked to life, stomping around to place themselves in front of the entrance facing inward. They would attempt to stop anyone inside from leaving the castle. Pyrrha turned back, vanishing the curtain as she left the lofty doors behind.

Crath stood with his arms crossed as he fixed Pyrrha with a mistrustful glare, pointedly ignoring Hati. Hati crouched between them at an angle to Crath. His tail wagged slightly as he stared intently at the centaur, as if hoping Crath would attempt to charge past him.

"Thank you, Hati," Pyrrha said, striding by them to the grand staircase. "Let's go. I'll introduce you to my friend Daisy."

Hati barked and padded after Pyrrha, claws clicking against the stone. Pyrrha admired the way Hati's pale coat shined even in the dim torchlight as they climbed the steps to the first floor. She stayed precisely in the middle, where she couldn't see the ground below over either side of the railings. Crath's voice paused their ascent.

"And what am I to do? I cannot scale the stairs," he said.

"I suppose I'll know where to find you, then, should that be necessary," Pyrrha said without turning around, and she and Hati resumed their way up.

* * *

Fatigue sunk its heavy claws into Pyrrha as they traversed the corridors. She hadn't slept or eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, most of which had been spent running and fighting for her life. Her mind lingered on the soft bed that awaited her in her old room in the Slytherin dormitory.

"Keep what little wit you can gather about you. You've still got the professors to deal with," Ashlin said from Pyrrha's side.

The stone halls echoed with Pyrrha's footfalls as she passed a statue of a rearing unicorn with a missing horn—the broken-off end of which had been crudely affixed to the unicorn's underside with spellotape—and turned into another corridor. Hati prowled beside her, luminous eyes staring a silent challenge at the residents of the many paintings that hung from the walls. He growled at the portrait of a pale witch with a black cat in her lap; the cat hissed and leapt away, vanishing behind the witch's ornate wooden chair.

Near the end of the corridor, there were doors on each side. Pyrrha knew one of them to be the staff room. Hati growled as they passed the tapestry of Pradesh the Stoic—it tore from the wall and draped itself over Pyrrha's head.

She inhaled a lungful of dust as she drew her wand in an instant, heart set to a frantic pace. She shredded the tapestry to ribbons with a spell, sidestepping at the same time; she shifted the cloud of fibers into a buzzing swarm of hornets and aimed her wand down the hall. It stood empty.

Something invisible cackled in the air ahead. "Even firsties don't scare _that_ easy! Who's this, then? Not a teacher, certainly not. Too much jumpy, not enough grumpy!" A small man appeared floating above, wearing an unnaturally wide grin and a garish, multicolored outfit complete with a jester hat, bells and all.

"Bloody Peeves!" Pyrrha said, heart thumping as she let her wand fall with a huff. The swarm of hornets changed back into a mess of shredded wool that settled to the floor.

Peeves flipped upside down and crossed his arms. "Not bloody, no. That's the Baron, scaredy-cat." He cleared his throat loudly, and said in his most annoying poetry voice:

 _"She's jumping at shadows, the poor, addled witch,_

 _c_ _razed eyes on the lookout for tapestry's twitch,_

 _she cursed it to bits with a shriek at high pitch,_

 _furniture beware of this barking mad bitch!"_

Pyrrha scowled as Peeves threw his head back in a bout of obnoxious laughter. "Make yourself scarce," she said, "or we'll find out together whether poltergeists can be made to feel pain. I've plenty of ideas." The sincerity in her voice appeared to dissuade Peeves from persevering, choosing instead to yowl like a cat and zoom backward to disappear through a wall. Hati barked indignantly after him.

With a sigh, Pyrrha waved her wand over the shredded tapestry, restoring it to its previous condition. She hung it in its place, raising an eyebrow at Pradesh's excessively dramatic posing and flexing before traversing the rest of the way down the hall to the staff room door. She threw the door open without ceremony and stepped inside with her wand raised, Hati on her heels.

A dozen dozing professors lay in a row along the lengthy table in the center of the room. They were bound at the wrists and ankles by thick, knotted ropes. All residents of the portraits that adorned the walls were similarly snared, with the addition of blindfolds, earmuffs, and gags. Daisy sprung up from her chair, wringing her hands. From behind her, the squirming, grunting likeness of an old warlock toppled from his stool and fell out of frame with a thump that rattled the shelves of vials around him.

It was all so neatly done; Pyrrha was both impressed and amused at Daisy's prudence. "Well done . . . did you already have a contingency plan to incapacitate the staff, by chance?"

"No, of course not," Daisy said unnecessarily, coloring a bit. "It wasn't that hard, anyway, I just called them a few at a time, stunned them one by one as they entered. Nothing complicated." She looked over at her handiwork anxiously. "What're you going to do with them?"

Pyrrha clasped her arms behind her and ambled around the table in thoughtful silence, eyes on her mismatched boots, occasionally glancing up at the prone forms of the staff as she considered her options. The Headmaster was among them, a bony old man, bald and hook-nosed. Even unconscious, his expression was perpetually sour. Daisy had often likened his appearance to a vulture. Pyrrha couldn't disagree.

"I need them out of the way for a while," Pyrrha said. "Perhaps I'll petrify them. Have you got Mandrake Restorative Draught handy?"

Daisy was kneeling by Hati, who regarded her suspiciously, but appeared to tolerate her. He tentatively sniffed at the hand she offered. "No," she said without looking up, "but I've got a few cauldrons of Living Death brewing for my sixth years. That should work, right? How long will you be here?"

"That's a better idea. Dose them with Living Death," Pyrrha said. "I'll be gone before September first, which gives me nine days at most."

"Alright, brilliant—now are you ready to tell me what the _hell_ is going on?" Daisy withdrew her hand from Hati's head as his chest rumbled with a low growl.

"Hati! Don't growl at Daisy. She's a friend; if you trust me, you can trust her." Pyrrha gave a satisfied nod as Hati's rumbling subsided. "Soon. The house elves will follow your instructions, yes?"

Daisy stood and twined her fingers uncomfortably. "I dunno . . . I was only officially appointed a couple weeks ago. Figured I'd give it a month before I started throwing my weight around."

Pyrrha nodded as she completed another circuit around the table. "They'll listen. Tell them they're not to venture beyond their quarters or the kitchens at any time, for any reason, unless you permit otherwise. Tell them to block all attempted house elf apparitions coming in from outside. Add anything else you can think of in that vein. While you do that, I'll modify their memories—" Pyrrha nodded at the professors "—and cut off the Floo connections. I'll await you in the library while you give them the draught."

"Sounds like a plan," Daisy said, still wringing her hands. "A really stupid plan that'll get me fired at best—or more likely, tossed into Azkaban. You don't have to say it!" she added as Pyrrha opened her mouth. "I know you've got good reasons for this madness. I trust you. That doesn't mean I'm not panicking a little inside."

"It'll be alright, Daisy," Pyrrha said, attempting to sound soothing. "I'll make certain nobody has any reason to suspect you. Thank you for trusting me. And really," she added, "you must know I'd break you out of Azkaban in an instant."

Daisy smiled uneasily. "Thanks, but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not live as an outlaw. It's nice to know you care, though."

 _"I wonder . . ."_ Pyrrha winced as Ashlin's cruel voice vibrated through her head, accompanied by a pulse of pain. _". . . Will her trust be rewarded as mine was?"_

* * *

Under the gloomy half-light of the library Pyrrha sat stiffly at her old spot in a secluded corner, and across from her, the crux of her regrets propped up its dead-eyed gaze with an elbow against the table. The slumped posture, the way she leaned and tilted her head, the way the little finger bent—it was every little detail revived, as if Ashlin had never died. She could be sat across their kitchen table, patiently listening to Pyrrha drone on about the most recent fascinating, meaningless subject to capture her interest. Devoid of love, the figment's masklike smile brought the illusion crashing down.

"We haven't had much time to chat, have we?" Ashlin let the rhetorical hang in the musty air for a moment as Hati's snoozing sounded from under the table. "Though neither of us is much inclined towards heart-to-hearts, I think."

Another glaring difference from the real Ashlin. As in most things, she'd been Pyrrha's social opposite, with no shortage of enthusiasm for the company of those drawn to her convivial nature. Scorching heat licked at Pyrrha's skull.

The specter sat up and placed its hands primly upon the table. "I am Ashlin," it said with finality.

Pyrrha's fingers were white against the arms of her chair. "You're Ashlin as—as I remember her . . . but that's only part of it. What are you, really?"

The specter—

Pyrrha groaned as her blood boiled. Blistering heat bloomed from her scar and burned away everything but the agony it bore across her twitching body. She couldn't move, couldn't speak; she could only feel as her bones melted and her teeth crumbled to searing ash that rasped down her throat. The pain faded and resurged in waves like a receding ocean tide, and Pyrrha could dimly make out her sister's voice.

"I'm no specter. I'm quite real to you," Ashlin said, her voice like a thin wire carrying a current of lightning. "Like I said before; I'm the sister you deserve, reborn from a curse of guilt. There exists no countercurse; you'll never discover such a thing, let alone utilize it, because I won't allow it. You'll never do anything without my consent. Only death will free you from me."

"And . . . is that what you want?" Pyrrha sat back against her chair, rubbing at her head. The motion taxed her; her body was an aching husk, bereft of vitality. Sound and sight were dulled, as if she were wrapped snugly in a cloud. "You want me to die?"

Ashlin tisked. "Now, how much sense does that make? If I wanted you dead," she said, leaning forward, "I'd have tortured you into insanity in the woods and left you to Morrigan."

"Then what—what do you want?"

Icy blue eyes gleamed. "What else? Revenge."

"Revenge . . ." Pyrrha murmured, still somewhat in a daze. "Are you after Morrigan, or me?"

Ashlin's too-wide smile was answer enough. A chill rippled across Pyrrha's skin.

"Both of us, then," Pyrrha said quietly. "But you need me intact to kill Morrigan, of course."

"Oh, well done! Well done!" Ashlin clapped sarcastically. "I guess there's something of merit in that crispy little head of yours after all." She cocked her head, eyes rolling up. "I do believe I hear Daisy approaching. That's our discussion concluded, I suppose."

Pyrrha had wrapped her arms around herself at some point. Exhaustion crept into her bones as she rubbed at her shoulders, feeling as if she shared the table with a dementor. "What if I fail . . . fail to kill her?"

"You won't," Ashlin said flatly. "I'll make sure of it." It was a promise, and a threat.

"And if . . . when I succeed . . . ?" Pyrrha trailed off as Ashlin disappeared in a blink. The familiar, soft laughter in her head brought none of the warmth it should've. Instead, it traced frozen fingers of foreboding down her spine.

 _"I meant what I said. I don't want you to die,"_ Ashlin said. _"After all, if you die, I die as well . . . again. I want us to live . . . a long, long time."_

Pyrrha barely registered Daisy's distressed voice. She leaned heavily on the arm of her chair, feeling as if the weight of the castle above was pressing her down. Her head lolled until warm, soft hands propped her up gently. Something whined as a pale blur leapt onto the table. Gold and silver filled her fuzzy vision.

"—hear me? Don't worry, okay, I'm going to—"

Pyrrha scoured her mind for memories as she drew her wand with a trembling hand. The slight length of wood was the heaviest thing she'd ever lifted; she brought it to her scarred temple and drew out a shimmering strand of memory, a blue-white stream of liquid thought that drifted gracefully after her wand tip as she held it outstretched.

"Morrigan," Pyrrha mumbled as the world faded into nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

The small room of midnight blue was awash in the cozy light of the dozen floating candles circling the bed. Shadows thrown by the bedroom's stacks and piles of organized clutter danced against the walls, flickering in time with the lit wicks. The sweet aroma of homemade jaffa cakes lingered in the air. Pyrrha lay wrapped in her blankets, fighting valiantly against the siren call of sleep as she watched her new stuffed dragon fly circles around the room, each flapping of its plush wings sending the flames below into a fit of shivers. Her father's voice hummed in her ears.

". . . even more magnificent. She captured the essence of life and remade it within her mind, weaving exquisite new landscapes and creatures born of her imagination. Her tapestries brought the fantastical worlds and people inside her head into reality for all to admire, and they were a sight to behold. Each and every one was like a window into an alien world just out of reach. The beings depicted therein were at once entirely fictional and indicative of true life, able to think and learn and remember and feel. Tesserande's tapestries were far beyond anything this world had ever seen before or since, and the one she displayed now for the crowds to marvel at was no different.

As the audience cheered to her triumph, Tesserande ridiculed the mentor she had surpassed long ago, for she was no more humble in victory than she'd ever been before. She decried Vefari's weaving as nothing in comparison to her meanest effort. Vefari fell to his knees in tears; in that minute, his life had been ruined, for he had lost their competition by the judgement of the crowds. Held to the terms of the Unbreakable Vow, he would never weave another tapestry.

As Tesserande basked in adulation, despair and rage overtook Vefari. He stood with a wordless shout and pointed his wand at his former student. The crowds gasped as Tesserande began to shrink and change, attempting to flee by taking on the form of a spider. Vefari's curse struck halfway though the transformation; Tesserande wailed as she was transfigured into a monster, half-woman, half-spider.

'Who will admire your works now?' Vefari cried. 'Who will withstand the sight of you, now that it mirrors what you are inside?' He waved his wand again, and the crowd screamed as Tesserande swelled to monstrous size for all to see. The masses fled in terror before her visage. Her humanoid head bore eight beady black eyes and a gaping, fanged jaw. Sprouting from her waist downward was the enormous body of a spider, complete with eight spindly legs. Tesserande sobbed and fled into the woods, never to be seen again.

Vefari disappeared from the public eye shortly after that. Seven years later, he was found dead in his home by his wife, in front of his final tapestry. It was his masterwork; his wife declared it to be the single greatest thing Vefari had ever created, including their children. In keeping with his written instructions, a select few were permitted to behold the masterpiece before it was hidden away from the unworthy eyes of society. The wizarding world mourned the loss of its two greatest weavers, and their absence was keenly felt for generations to come."

Pyrrha waited with wide eyes for the story to continue, but her father closed the book with a yawn. "Dad . . ." she said. "That story was awful."

He chuckled, leaning back to stretch in his chair. "It's got some important lessons in it, but you might be right. That was a bit heavy for a nine year old." He scratched the back of his head with a rueful smile. "I'd forgotten how it ended. You know, it's markedly similar to—"

"Arachne, you told me," Pyrrha said. "Which one of those stories actually happened?"

He shrugged. "Could be both. Could be neither. Nobody knows. What's important is what you learn from them, even if they're not all the way true."

"I learned that I should pick the bedtime stories."

Her father threw back his head and laughed. "Well, alright then, you brat," he said fondly. "Pick one more, then it's bed for both of us."

"The one you found about our ancestor," Pyrrha said immediately. "Finn McCool!" She grinned at her father's exasperated expression.

"The Nightmare Queen? You want to hear _that_ just before you sleep? And how many times have I told you—"

"—a billion—"

"—name was Fionn McCoul, and he only _might_ be a distant ancestor of ours, based on what little information I could gather from . . ." Her father trailed off as Pyrrha loudly pretended to snore. "Oh, excellent," he said. "Looks like I'm all done here!"

"No, no, no!" Pyrrha snatched her father's arm, but he hadn't moved. "One more, please, you promised!"

"Alright, alright, settle down, you. One more it is." Her father flipped to the proper page from memory and cleared his throat. "The Nightmare Queen," he read aloud. "Truly, I am a paragon of fatherhood," he added under his breath.

Pyrrha giggled, shifting into a more comfortable position under the warm blankets.

"One dark night under a moonless sky, three witches were born. They were called Macha, Badb, and Morrigan, and they were nearly the same to the beholder's eye, each with a tuft of hair as black as the void above, each with golden eyes like lanterns lit against the dusk. As they grew, their power grew with them, until they were renowned across the land for their fantastical feats of magic.

Their prowess made them ruthless and cruel, for they could not see the people they shared the land with as such; in their eyes, human beings, magical and nonmagical alike, were vacuous and inferior creatures, unworthy of the gift of life. The sisters Macha and Badb slew all who crossed their paths without mercy. Those who encountered the third sister on their travels were even less fortunate, as Morrigan possessed a perverse affinity for the manipulation of the mind. Nothing brought her more pleasure than to slowly break a man's spirit as she broke his body.

Fortuitously for the populace, the sisters appeared to be content to dwell within the confines of the roving forests they called home. With luck, the citizens of neighboring townships could venture a short way in, gather what was needed and leave again without encountering the Nightmare Queen and her siblings. This uneasy balance wasn't maintained for long, however; over time, the creatures of the wild were warped, becoming unnaturally bloodthirsty and aggressive. The surrounding hamlets and villages began to starve, for they could not hunt safely, and the frenzied wildlife ventured out in an act of spite, laying waste to the farmers' fields. The message was clear as a mountain stream; the population was no longer welcome near the forest.

The surrounding settlements raised a great army of wizards and men, and they set to march on the forest. The crows brought news of the approaching threat to the sinister sisters, who laughed at the notion of defeat. The birds then relayed their most stunning information yet; the wizard Fionn McCoul was among the militia. Fionn was a hero, a wizard of unmatched might, and the army's only hope for victory.

The sisters Macha and Badb had ever been less magically potent than their third sister, and it was at this time that they took advantage of the opportunity fate had granted them. It cannot be said for certain why they fled Morrigan to join Fionn's army; some speculate that jealousy and resentment for the Nightmare Queen's power drove them, while others posit that they had broken away from an insidious spell of enthrallment, freed by the fear of the imminent doom that was battle against the grand sorcerer Fionn.

Sensibly, Fionn was wary of deception. He kept careful eyes on the sisters, insisting that they stay at his side, spearheading the army. As they approached the forest, a single crow shot from the branches into the sky. It circled and peered down at the assembled militia with abominable glowing eyes, then opened its beak to release a harrowing shriek. The masses erupted into a chaos of blood as swords and wands were drawn, and friend turned on friend. Unprepared, Fionn was helpless to defend his people against the curse's onslaught, and he watched in horror as the people tore themselves apart in a mindless miasma of madness. His efforts to lift the curse were in vain.

As the last man fell, the crow landed amongst the carnage and became the Nightmare Queen, who looked upon the broken bodies with satisfaction. It was then that the unlikely trio attacked; Macha, Badb and Fionn struck out with all their might, and Morrigan repelled them. The ensuing magical contest shook the foundations of the earth and drove away the clouds in the sky. The three fought valiantly, but Morrigan gave not a hint of mercy as she set upon her sisters and cursed them into the final world.

Fionn was wracked with despair; he had led countless numbers of good-hearted people to a senseless slaughter. Why hadn't the sisters warned him of the Nightmare Queen's terrible power? Morrigan knew his thoughts, and she laughed cruelly. 'You thought my sisters cared for your kin?' she said. 'They despised you and your ilk as much as they despised me. They meant to be rid of us all in one foolish ploy.'

'You will face retribution for the blood you've spilled,' Fionn vowed.

Morrigan smiled an evil smile and beckoned an arm to someone unseen. 'If there is to be a reckoning, let the full scope of my deeds be known.' A body shifted among the morass of gore, and Fionn stood paralyzed with horror as a body dragged itself upright and stood beside Morrigan. The woman's skin was pale as starlight in the few spots unsullied by the blood that seeped from her grisly wounds. Fionn looked into her clouded eyes, and he knew then that the corpse that stood before him was the wife he had left safely behind in their home.

The Nightmare Queen had bewitched Fionn's wife, tricked her into marching with the army. Hatred and sorrow such as Fionn had never felt overtook him. He set upon Morrigan with peerless intensity, and the witch cackled as she fought back, reveling in the tears that streamed down Fionn's face. The air was alive with magic as they dueled. Fionn's grief had turned him into a primal force of justice: yellow-eyed monsters stampeded from the woods and fell against him; waves of the dead peeled themselves from the earth and broke upon his strength; the black expanse of numberless crows above were smote from the heavens.

At last, Morrigan faltered. She fell to the ground, defenseless and wounded. Fionn stood over her and prepared to strike the killing blow, but he stayed his hand, and it was not mercy that held him back, but vengeance. 'Death is a kindness I will not grant you,' he said. 'You will endure to suffer, as others have suffered for your deeds.' Fionn captured the witch and they departed, the only two survivors of that dreadful massacre.

Fionn pondered the fate of his charge with a heart full of revenge, and made a decision. He brought the witch to the northern coast and parlayed with the Bennadon tribe of giants. The giants were pleased with Fionn's victory and consented to his requests, and together they constructed the Giants' Causeway, a vast magical bridge of stone that rose from beneath and split the sea. Fionn built upon the bridge further and further until the mainland was just at the edge of sight, and there he stopped.

Morrigan did not speak. She watched as Fionn lifted the earth from the depths of the sea and created a small island of rock. The stone flowed together in sharply angled patterns, forming an array of jagged spears across the island's surface that jutted out in all directions, the better to prevent anything from landing there. Fionn wove enchantments into the spiky outcrop, obscuring it from all who might seek it by air, by sea, and even by magical means.

From the stone, Fionn constructed a cavern. Its entrance looked back at the distant mainland that would remain forever out of Morrigan's reach. He cast spells of confinement upon the prison, then turned to face the witch one final time. From behind her, the sea exploded in a shower of saltwater. A whale with shining yellow eyes leapt from the ocean, and Fionn called upon the water; it responded in a swift and towering wave that knocked the whale aside, and the beast moaned as it was speared through upon the island's largest stone spires. It writhed pitifully, immense strength nevertheless no match for Fionn's enchantments. Fionn returned to the witch and sealed her away inside the cavern.

It was there, on Spire Island, that the Nightmare Queen would spend her remaining days, gazing out to watch as life carried on. She would never again tread the dense woodlands she held so dear. She would never again enjoy the soft music of nature, nor taste its sweet scents in the air. The giants would bring her food and depart without speaking, leaving Morrigan to dwell in her waterlogged prison, set upon by the relentless rains and the icy blades of the wind. She would remain there until the end of her time.

Fionn returned home victorious, but did not feel it. He silently mourned his losses as he settled back into his role as the defender of the lands, mediating disputes and combating the evils of the world as was his wont. In time, his heart healed, and he was remarried, marking the beginning of a new family and a new life. He grew old with his wife and their nine children, and they spent many happy years together. Fionn died of advanced age, in bed and surrounded by loved ones. His wife followed soon after. The McCoul children had children of their own, and life carried on without a worry . . .

. . . Until one day, word came from the Nightmare Queen's jailers, the Bennadon giants. Morrigan was dead, but she would not die. The witch, sustained by her wretched black arts, promised her vengeance on the entirety of the McCoul bloodline along with the rest of the land. Fionn's grandson, the head of that generation, instructed the giants to destroy the Causeway, that no one may reach Spire Island and release the witch. The charmed bridge was constructed too well, however; neither the giants nor the McCouls could dismantle it.

The McCoul patriarch asked of the giants to defend the bridge from interlopers, but they would not. The younger generations had forgotten the terror of Morrigan. With great reluctance, McCoul offered a priceless family heirloom passed down by Fionn himself, and the Bennadon tribe accepted it. In exchange, they agreed to remain vigilant, and to this day their towering sentinels guard the unwary world against the wrath of the Nightmare Queen."

Pyrrha bit her lip as her father closed the book with a sigh. He leaned over and brushed a hand over her hair. "Don't worry, love, it's just a story. Remember what I always tell you?"

"Don't trust anything anyone tells you if you can't verify it," Pyrrha said in an oft-repeated tone. Her father nodded and she continued, "don't experiment with potion ingredients, don't set traps for leprechauns, don't practice magic without supervision, don't ever have fun—"

"You had it the first time," her father said sternly, his lip twitching. He pulled out his pocket watch, and his eyebrows shot up at the hour. "Blimey. Well, that's it, then. Give your old man one last hug," he said, standing and wrapping his arms around Pyrrha.

"What?" Pyrrha said as they broke apart.

"Your mother's going to kill me for letting you stay up so late." Her father ran a hand through his hair ruefully, expression slightly guilty. "If she asks . . ."

"We read Beedle the Bard," Pyrrha said immediately.

"That's my girl. G'night, love." He pecked her forehead with a kiss and turned to leave the room, extinguishing all but one floating candle with a wave of his wand.

"Dad?" Pyrrha said. Her father paused in the doorway and turned expectantly. "Can you get Mr. Puffy down for me?"

"Of course." Her father motioned, and the stuffed dragon glided down from the ceiling and settled into her arms. She cuddled it sleepily as her father gently closed the bedroom door.

* * *

It was a scant few months ago that the Clay sisters had finally found the strength to open the door to their parents' bedroom, two years after their untimely deaths. The miscellaneous belongings therein had been cradled and cried over like the treasures they had become, then packed safely away, out of sight, where they couldn't hurt.

The exceptions now lay before Pyrrha on the kitchen table, bathing in the fiery morning glow that spilled through the windows. Various historical texts sat surrounded by wrinkled and coffee-stained sheafs of parchment covered in messy writing. A map of Ireland dominated the pile, covered in marks and circles with accompanying jotted notations. It was the culmination of years of her father's research into the legend of the Nightmare Queen.

In the process of combing through her father's notes, it had become clear to Pyrrha that there was more than a hint of truth to the tale. Dozens of cross-referenced records of historical accounts supported the general sequence of events portrayed in the storybook. Her father had corresponded with a variety of magical historians, chief among them a man called Furnival, who had a fondness for Celtic magical history that shined through in the few obscure supplemental details he had managed to uncover.

Naturally, the specifics surrounding a mysterious figure from a thousand years past were nearly nonexistent; it seemed that the meat of the tale as written in _Three Hundred Most Spellbinding Legends of Magical Europe_ was largely made up. The puzzle's frame was built, but tantalizingly empty in the center, and Pyrrha hungered for the missing pieces.

Curiosity wasn't the only reason for Pyrrha's drive. Her father had also done extensive research into their family line, all but confirming a genealogical link between the Clays and the legendary wizard Fionn McCoul. If everything added together the way it seemed to, Morrigan's continued existence was a dire threat that loomed not just over the country, but the Clays in particular, or what was left of their family—just the two of them. Pyrrha couldn't stand by awaiting the day that the magic of the prison faltered, by gradual decay or outside interference. Something had to be done, and no one was better equipped than Pyrrha to handle it.

The next step was simple in theory: find Spire Island. The etchings on the map appeared to concur with the storybook as far as the general location, off Ireland's northern coast. Every little green patch that denoted an island was crossed out next to a note: _SI very likely unplottable._ A wide circle enclosed a broad swath of ocean, with several dotted lines extending north from the coastline: _Causeway begins somewhere—rockier parts more likely, obviously._

Ascertaining the location of the Giants' Causeway was Pyrrha's next goal. Her father had made little progress on that front, but there was an option he hadn't considered—or perhaps he had, and had dismissed it as too perilous, but danger was no obstacle to Pyrrha. Today, she would follow up on the information she had garnered from the Ministry's records in the Department of Magical Creature Regulation and Control, and seek out any remnant of the Bennadon tribe of giants.

"So, where are you off to this time?" Pyrrha started at Ashlin's voice from across the table. Her freshly woken sister was customarily disheveled, blinking blearily as she yawned.

That was something Pyrrha did not want to answer. Instead, she said, "How many times have I asked you not to sneak up on me like that?"

Ashlin huffed. "There was no sneaking, I walked in like a normal person. It's not my fault you're oblivious when you're working. A drunk erumpent could sneak up on you." She heaved another full-body yawn. "God, how do you even wake up so early without coffee?"

"A cold shower helps."

"You're psychotic," Ashlin said, plopping into a chair. She waved her wand vaguely at the cupboards, and the coffee tin soared out and began the process of brewing itself. "Seriously," she continued, "if you're a lizard person, I deserve to know."

Pyrrha laughed softly, returning her eyes to the table. "A lizard person would prefer warm water, assuming they were cold-blooded."

Ashlin made a noise of good-natured exasperation. "You can learn literally anything, and I _still_ can't teach you to banter like a human being. All hope is lost for the Lizard Person Integration Initiative."

Pyrrha hummed as cookware clanked behind her. She drummed her fingers against the table as her eyes raked the map, scanning the markings she had added in the northeastern quadrant. She had noted several likely areas to search on the coast, but it would take weeks to properly survey the length of it. The much more expedient way to go about it was to find the last giant colony, based somewhere in the southern Ural Mountains; if there remained a descendant of the Bennadon tribe, they would have the knowledge she sought.

According to the Ministry's most recent records, there were barely a dozen giants left in the colony; their extinction was all but complete. The chances of success were slim, but it was worth a try. Pyrrha wondered if she might even find the mysterious heirloom of Fionn's that had been gifted to the Bennadons.

"—to answer my question?"

Pyrrha looked up again and wordlessly raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Oh no . . ." Ashlin said, clutching her face with mock despair. "I knew this day would come—you've filled your head with so much knowledge it's overtaken your ability to talk!"

Pyrrha breathed an irritated sigh. "What was your question?"

Ashlin looked delighted to have been an annoyance as she beckoned with her wand and received a floating mug of coffee. "I asked where you're going today." She glanced at the map before looking back at Pyrrha intently. "Be more specific than 'out', if you don't mind."

"Just a bit of hiking around, exploring. Nothing to worry about."

Ashlin snorted. "Right. You'd be a rubbish spy, you know. Not only can you not lie, I can clearly see Dad's bloody Morgana notes under the map."

"Morrigan."

"Whatever. Tell me what you're really doing."

Pyrrha ran a hand through her hair and shot her sister an annoyed look. "I didn't lie," she said, packing away the scattered books and papers into her pouch with a wave of her wand. "I'm going to look into something, and it's nothing to—"

"Pyrrha, don't make me hex your face upside down."

Pyrrha relented with a short sigh. "I'm looking for giants, the Bennadons. Hopefully there's at least one left."

Ashlin winced. "Those are the ones that supposedly guarded the sea bridge?"

"Yes. They're my best chance to find it quickly."

"So . . . you really think this 'Nightmare Queen' is real? Like, she's out there right now?"

Pyrrha nodded solemnly. "I'm going to take care of it, don't worry. I'll be back before sundown." She swirled her wand at her head, and her hair twisted itself into her usual simple updo. Ashlin's voice stopped her on the way to the door.

"Hang on!" Ashlin fidgeted a moment under Pyrrha's gaze. "Could you, er . . ." She gestured vaguely at her messy hair. "I'm going over to Elise's today."

"Yes, you have my permission," Pyrrha said with a pointed look, stepping behind Ashlin. "Braid?"

"Thanks. And there's no need to get snippy; I asked you already yesterday, and you hummed yes."

"Was I reading?" Pyrrha twirled Ashlin's hair into an intricate French braid with a charm.

"Yeah, and don't say it doesn't count, because that's rubbish. You need to pay attention." Ashlin's tone was suddenly irritable.

"Alright, relax. Have fun at Elise's, and I'll see you tonight."

Ashlin would be fine without her, as always, and that was even more certain as of a breakthrough in her studies of blood charms last year. The spell of shared blood Pyrrha had placed on her would transmit any pain her sister felt to herself, and she could be at Ashlin's side in the next instant. Failing that, Pyrrha had made certain to help her master the Patronus messenger, among other vital skills.

Ashlin accompanied Pyrrha to the door. The morning greeted them with golden rays of warmth that fell upon the grass, which glistened with abundant beads of dew. Fluffy clouds scudded across the pale blue sky. Distant chirps rang out from the surrounding woods, mingling to create a pleasant harmony. Pyrrha stepped outside and inhaled the heady scents of the dawn.

"Hey!" Ashlin wrapped her arms tightly around Pyrrha, burying her face in Pyrrha's shoulder. "Be careful, you big, stupid genius. If you die, who'll buy me the new Nimbus?"

Pyrrha smiled as she patted her sister's back. "Whatever would you need two of them for?" She winced as the hug ventured into rib-crushing territory. "It should arrive any day now; could be today, even. Congratulations on your O.W.L. results. Mum and Dad would be as proud as I am."

"Thanks," Ashlin said quietly, voice trembling a little. "I love you _so much."_

". . . You too, Ash."

* * *

Pyrrha knew she'd found them when distant roaring and crashing disturbed the peaceful ambiance of the Russian wilderness. The uproar came from the northeast, not much further up the mountain, by her estimation. She flicked her wand at her boots, and her next steps came without a sound as the charm muffled the crinkling of leaves and the snapping of twigs. She followed the thunderous clamor of battle, striding between lofty pines and past foliage that leapt out of her way at wandpoint.

A stick plucked from the edge of the forest that encircled the Clay household had conveyed Pyrrha to the southern Urals as a portkey, directly after she had apparated into the middle of a farm a hundred miles away. She'd dismantled it before it could attempt the return trip to the house. The Ministry couldn't detect the creation of a portkey, but they could and would know where they came and went, if the locations in question weren't properly obscured. Pyrrha didn't expect the Russians to be any less diligent.

She had set off immediately, apparating half a dozen times up the mountain; any responding law enforcement would arrive to an empty stretch of forest. Pyrrha was beginning to regret that hasty move. There was little of consequence for miles around, excepting the giant encampment she sought. Law enforcement would come to the obvious conclusion about her destination and prepare an ambush: much more of an annoyance than simply subduing them outright.

Pyrrha halted her woodland trek abruptly and aimed her wand at her own murky shadow. It rippled once and rose from the ground, pulling itself into the third dimension as if emerging from a pool of still water. She directed the figure to stand before her, and it moved without a sound, a blank, humanoid silhouette of coalesced darkness. After a ponderous moment, Pyrrha smiled and twitched her wand, and the shadow resolved itself into the shape of a grizzled, grey-haired man with a lined face set in a scowl. After a minute of adjusting the details on his face and weathered robes, she sent the shadow puppet ahead of her, letting it reach a reasonable distance before following after it.

Pyrrha rapped her head with her wand as she walked, shivering a little at the cold trickling feeling that dripped down her neck as she became a transparent shimmer in the air. Closer to the din, she could make out thunderous crashes and collisions among the enraged shouts of the giants. Between the distant trees, a stone-strewn clearing surrounded a cascading waterfall, the dull roar of surging water barely audible as it fed into a smoothly flowing river. Enormous humanoid forms were easily picked out, bellowing and hurling rocks and fists at one another.

Pyrrha cast _Homenum Revelio,_ and the expected life forms twinkled ahead, dotting the forest surrounding the rocky riverbank which the giants occupied. She cast it poorly on purpose; the telltale swooping sensation would alert them, and lure them out of hiding. Moments later, a series of soft pops disturbed the air as over half a dozen wizards with wands out surrounded Pyrrha's shadow, which she willed to a standstill. She made the puppet raise its arms in surrender.

A brunette witch stepped forward, wand arm steady. Pyrrha idly noted her prominent cheekbones and striking jaw as she began to cast silently on the man nearest.

"Do not move," the witch said calmly in Russian, performing a series of deft wand movements. Pyrrha felt the brief tingle of anti-apparition and anti-portkey jinxes pass over her. "You are apprehended, by the authority of the Federal Sorcery Security Service of Russia, unit twenty-two."

The shadow stayed stock-still with its arms raised as Pyrrha continued to weave her spell from a short distance away, keeping her movements to a minimum. Three of the seven agents were bewitched, conjoined by a shimmering white thread only she could perceive. One of the wizards rubbed at his neck distractedly.

The dark-haired witch waved her wand, then frowned suspiciously when nothing happened. "Do you not carry a wand? What is your purpose here? Speak." There was an expectant pause. "Do you speak Russian? French? English?" The witch switched languages seamlessly.

The weedy wizard beside her massaged his jaw with his free hand, eyes darting around warily. "Something's wrong, Ros. I feel . . . strange."

The witch's wand flashed out, and a jet of red light passed cleanly through Pyrrha's shadow and struck a burly wizard on the shoulder; the man collapsed bonelessly and was mirrored by five others, their unconscious bodies toppling to the dirt as one. Pyrrha hadn't ensorcelled the witch in time.

The witch swore as she threw herself behind a nearby tree. Pyrrha was already moving when she felt the hastily-cast Presence-Revealing Charm swoop overhead. She beckoned as she darted from her previous position, and the limp forms of the stunned wizards were lifted from the dirt, held aloft upside down by their ankles. Pyrrha swatted away a volley of stunning spells and stepped behind a thick tree. She swung her wand upward and around; the stunned wizards soared higher, suspended fifty feet from the forest floor. Pyrrha shifted them to float in a wide circle above the space between herself and the witch, who had ceased casting stunners.

It appeared the witch had grasped the situation quickly; if Pyrrha was incapacitated, her spell would fade, and the agents would fall to their deaths. It was a surprise, then, when a torrent of water surged around the trunk of her tree and submerged her to her waist before freezing solid. An annoyed noise escaped her as she shattered the ice and sent the jagged chunks flying, shredding through a bounding grizzly bear. It disappeared as it died.

Pyrrha chuckled softly as she stepped out, flicking her wand up and outward. The ground erupted in a broad spray of dirt that blew violently away, blasting around a shimmering pocket of seemingly empty space. The dirt swirled and became a hailstorm of stones shooting back at her; she reduced them to dust, allowing the haze to conceal her as she moved. Pyrrha felt the touch of another locating spell as she gestured at the Disillusioned agent's rippling form. Thick roots burst from the soil and wrapped greedily around the witch.

The ensnared outline was too wide, too still; it was a Disillusioned boulder. Pyrrha blocked a sidelong spell and cast in the same movement; she turned and aimed at resulting spark of life, shutting her eyes as she sidestepped another spell. Her charm flashed brilliantly against her eyelids as it pulsed out. The agent's outcry of pain and shock was quite satisfying, but the feeling was brushed away by impressed annoyance as a tree leaned in front of the witch, intercepting Pyrrha's followup stunning spell.

Pyrrha strode in an arc around the tree and gestured, and the witch's form was unveiled, melting into being. Another locating spell brushed Pyrrha while the witch stumbled back, blinking hard as she raised her wand. A flock of sparrows appeared at the witch's movement and surrounded her in a tornado of feathers; Pyrrha shifted them into iron cannonballs that veered and smashed repeatedly into the witch's arms and legs like a swarm of bludgers. She cried out and collapsed under the assault as her bones were broken to pieces, and Pyrrha vanished the cannonballs with a wave.

The witch lay in a heap, her wand still clutched in a shaking hand. Her arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Her pained breathing hissed between her teeth as she glared defiantly past Pyrrha, her vision still impaired. "Do it, then," she said. "Motherless, dog-fucking cunt—!" Her arm crunched as she brought it up with an agonized yell.

Pyrrha deflected the spell and returned with a stunner that struck the witch in her chest, and she collapsed down onto the dirt. After scanning the area for hidden backup, Pyrrha stood back and took a moment to appreciate the duel; it was a welcome reminder that not everyone she would pit herself against would be woefully incompetent.

At a gesture, the six flying agents descended to the earth and piled unceremoniously next to the witch. Pyrrha charmed the area with several protections in a minute, then paused in the act of walking away to look back at the witch. She allowed her eyes to linger a moment on red lips and rich brown hair before evaluating her battered limbs critically. With a sigh at herself, she began waving her wand slowly, and the witch twitched and shifted under her skin as bones reset and fused together. Pyrrha placed a vial of Philter of Respite between the witch's clenched fingers before resuming the trek to the giants.

She left the FS3 agents their memories in the hope it caused Drang even the slightest inconvenience. She considered and dismissed the idea of injecting his distinctly hoarse voice into their recollections; after being rendered unconscious they would anticipate and reverse any memory tampering, casting more doubt on the shadow likeness she had created being linked to him.

Still transparent and muffled, Pyrrha crept to the treeline around the riverbank. Nine giants occupied the otherwise majestic scene. One stood in the river, underneath the waterfall that barely surpassed his height, and seemed to be taking the giant equivalent of a shower. Another stood atop the fall, baring teeth like chipped bricks in a childish grin as he urinated on his kinsman's head. Five more lounged around a bonfire the size of a small house, laying on pelts of interwoven wedenbear skins and passing around a sloshing clay vessel. Several of them sported bloody injuries.

The last two giants were in considerably worse shape; they lay in gory heaps near the riverbank, clearly beaten to death. One had her chest brutally caved in, the pool of blood steadily growing underneath her. The other simply had a mess of scattered flesh where his head should've been. It had either been dashed to little pieces on the rocks, or ripped off entirely and hurled out of sight.

Pyrrha easily identified the Gurg. He was the only giant entirely uninjured and utterly at ease, picking food from his teeth with a knotted branch. "Bolga!" he called suddenly, thrusting out an enormous arm towards the clay vessel. "Give me the drink!" Pyrrha took a moment to be glad she had taken the time to learn some of the giants' language from Grawp's mind.

The one called Bolga leaned away with a defiant grunt and upended the vessel over his open mouth. The others stared slack-jawed and wide-eyed as he drained the massive jug. An anticipatory silence fell as Bolga uttered a satisfied belch, and he set the cup aside with an expression of dull-witted defiance.

The Gurg sat up straight, face set in a cold mask. Without preamble, he withdrew his makeshift toothpick from between his teeth and pointed it at Bolga as if it were a tiny wand. The other giants cringed and flinched away as Bolga stiffened. His body became wracked with shivers; he whimpered and tore at his hair before crying out, and he roared with terror as he rolled and squirmed on the rocky ground as if covered in crawling abominations from the depths of his nightmares. The pitch of the screams rose as birds fled the area in droves.

The Gurg's arm never wavered; he kept the branch aimed at Bolga as the unfortunate giant thrashed about. Abruptly, Bolga stood, eyes bulging with terror like prey with baying hounds at his heels. Still screaming, he whipped his head around, searching desperately, and his wild eyes alit on the bonfire. Bolga threw himself onto the inferno in a massive crunch of wood. He and his tortured cries took an agonizingly long minute to die.

Around the corpse-laden fire the other giants sat stiffly, staring, eyes darting to their leader with poorly disguised fear every few seconds. The Gurg leaned back again contentedly and returned to picking his teeth with what could only be Morrigan's staff.

Pyrrha reached out for the staff with an _Accio,_ but, of course, it wouldn't be that easy.

If she had more time, she could lure the subordinate giants elsewhere, or else pit them against each other. But she didn't. The FS3 would be sending backup for their missing agents any time now, and Pyrrha wanted to be clear away before that happened.

Pyrrha let herself fade into view as she strode out of the trees and into the silent open. Rocks shifted mutely under her boots as she made for the bonfire. Bolga's seared corpse still suffused the air with a rancid smog of smoke, and his final expression conveyed unthinkable agony, even charred as his features were.

The Gurg watched her carefully as the three around him shot to their feet with startling agility. The two giants at the distant waterfall called out in alarm, and they were preceded by their thundering footsteps, each stride shaking the earth under Pyrrha's feet as they joined their compatriots between her and their Gurg.

Pyrrha stopped several gigantic steps away, by her estimation. She spoke in the guttural language of giants, loud enough for the leader to hear. "I am Pyrrha of the McCoul family. Step aside; I wish to speak to your Gurg."

"Don't care who you are," a one-eyed giant said, licking his cracked lips. "Unless McCouls are tastier than other stupid humans." Low laughter rumbled among them.

"Brain's my favorite part," another said, baring her jagged teeth in a feral grin. "Too bad this one got none."

The one-eyed giant glanced at her curiously. "How you can tell?"

"Let her pass," the Gurg said. The giants fell silent and stepped away, creating a narrow path around the gruesome pyre.

Pyrrha walked with purpose, projecting unshakeable confidence as she passed within arm's reach of the vicious beasts. Sour body odor and blood hung in the air about the giants. They leered down at her hungrily; briefly, Pyrrha met their eyes with a flat expression, then turned away with practiced indifference that concealed her disgust. She stopped before the Gurg, who lounged on his side once again, fidgeting with the staff that appeared as a twig in his hand.

The Gurg didn't mince words. "Prove to me you're a McCoul," he demanded, eyes shining with undisguised greed.

"My ancestor, Aedan McCoul, gave the Bennadon tribe that staff," Pyrrha said, nodding at it. "Are you a former Bennadon? Or did you take it from them?"

The Gurg grinned crookedly. "My father was kin to them. I killed him for this." He looked at the staff between his thick fingers with the fondness of one recalling heinous deeds done with relish. "It has served me well. And so I wonder, what could the McCouls have brought to bargain with this time?" He fixed her with an expectant, eager look.

"A gift infinitely more precious, I assure you," Pyrrha said. "You'll have it as soon as you tell me what I need to know."

The Gurg laughed, a booming, incredulous sound. "Give me your offering, first. There will be no bargain otherwise; wizards are not to be trusted."

"That's an interesting sentiment," Pyrrha said, "considering you've already decided to kill and eat me once you have what you want. Let me tell you this, then; the gift I offer is your life. Tell me where to find the Giants' Causeway, or I'll take the knowledge from your mind as you die by your own hand."

The Gurg's answer came in the form of an outraged roar as he sprang upright, pointing the staff at where Pyrrha had been. She reappeared silently outside the circle, and said, "This is your only warning, all of you! Flee, and I will allow it. Only your Gurg has what I want. Will you die for him?"

The giants stood indecisive, expressions conflicted as they weighed their options. The Gurg made their decision for them: "It's just one human, you sniveling cowards!" he said, red-faced, spittle flying from his lips. "Bring her to me, alive, or I'll curse you into madness! GO!"

Three giants stampeded along the river toward her with booming battle cries, the other two following behind halfheartedly. Pyrrha pulled at the rushing river with her wand; a geyser of water shot up and spiraled into an array of icicles that thrust themselves through the two nearest giants with a wet punching sound, pinning them in place with pillars of ice protruding from their torsos. A jab of her wand split the earth under the third, and the giant fell into the crevice with a resounding slam. Pyrrha gestured; the giant screamed as the fissure crushed him flat between its walls like the devouring maw of a titanic beast.

One of the impaled giants was glassy-eyed as rivulets of its blood ran down the ice spires that held its corpse upright. The other groaned and pleaded incoherently, clutching at the icicles protruding from her stomach, patting at the welling blood ineffectually. Pyrrha waved her wand as she passed, and the column of ice reared up like a huge river serpent, holding the moaning giant aloft and smashing it headfirst against the rocks with a loud crunch.

The remaining two stared, wide-eyed, and one of them turned to flee, leaping into the river and splashing across to vanish into the woods. The other bellowed and snatched a large rock from the banks, hurling it out. Not breaking stride, Pyrrha whipped her wand forward; the stone slingshotted back and shattered against the giant's formidable forehead, sending it staggering back a step. She traced a complex pattern as she drew closer, and the giant yelped as his body began to shrink and shift until a large hog floated helplessly in the air, writhing and squealing. Pyrrha decapitated it in a flash of white light, a fountain of blood spouting from the neck.

"This is your final chance!" Pyrrha called as she stalked toward the Gurg.

The Gurg uttered a wordless cry and brandished the staff; Pyrrha vanished and reappeared a distance to the side, and the spell that flew from her wand struck the giant's hand. His arm jerked back, and he fumbled the staff for a moment before regaining his grip and pointing it again. Pyrrha disapparated once more and emerged behind the Gurg, who turned and bolted for the treeline.

Pyrrha raised her wand calmly; the trees leaned and extended their boughs, snaking around the Gurg's struggling arms. They held him in place far from securely; the giant hollered and thrashed, ripping out branches and pulling up roots as Pyrrha approached at a brisk pace. He wrenched free for a moment and stumbled ahead, only to be ensnared by more grasping trees and snaking roots. He pulled away, then, back towards the river, but it was too late. He met Pyrrha's gaze over his bulky shoulder, eyes bulging with fear. She found herself unsympathetic.

The trees held the Gurg's arms and legs fast as she performed a complicated wand movement. She shivered at the sensation of blood being drawn from her; it spilled from her wand and coiled in the air like a nest of tangled serpents.

"No—what are you doing? Stop—I surren—!" The giant gagged and thrashed against his bonds as Pyrrha's blood streamed into his mouth, into his nose and ears, behind his horrified eyes, and disappeared into his body. His struggling grew more desperate as he hacked and coughed. "What—what have you done? _What have you done to me?"_

Pyrrha reached out to her blood, and it responded. The rush of sensation was disconcerting as ever; she felt the giant's veins and vessels as her own as her blood spread itself through him. Two lines of sight, two sets of lungs, two beating hearts. She was of two bodies and one mind. The sensory input was almost overwhelming, but only almost. She had come quite far.

The trees and roots retracted at Pyrrha's will. She knelt—no, she forced the giant to kneel before her, and she met her own hard black gaze as she peered into the giant's blank, bulbous eyes. The staff slipped from her fingers as she raised her wand and dove into the giant's mind, plunging through the surface of heart-stopping panic into the repository of memory. She conjured thoughts of Morrigan, the staff, the Bennadons, the Causeway. The Gurg's mind responded with memory after memory that she examined and allowed to flash by: forcing his fellows to fight to the death for his amusement, with the staff's curse as the loser's prize; losing his mate to a rival Bennadon in the dead of night; establishing a dominant role over the tribe, staff never far from reach.

Pyrrha reached further back: he smashed his father's slumbering head in with a rock, picking up the staff before turning to his brother; his mother consoled him and wrapped his wounds, promising that one day the staff would be his; his parents sat him by the fire and told him of their ancestors, who were granted the staff in return for guarding a deserted expanse of rock. Pyrrha seized onto that memory and pulled it taut before her: No one ever attempted to cross the Causeway; the Bennadon giants left that land behind when the time came, never to return to the stretch of coast a scant few miles northeast of a small human village whose name didn't matter.

Pyrrha withdrew herself from the giant's mind. The sickening, doomed feeling of twofold existence returned as she did, and she fought to keep her breathing steady; her bare chest heaved, and her robes seemed to constrict her torso like a vise. She turned, and she turned, and she followed herself out of the woods and across the stones to the river, walking as fast as she could without stumbling.

She stood ankle-deep in the river as she fell to her monstrous knees beside herself, splashing water across her robes, and she watched her massive back bend as she submerged her head under the water. A cool breeze played across her face as the river rushed around her ears. The crisp mountain air she breathed was marred by the stench of blood, and her lungs burned as her forehead scraped the gritty riverbed.

The sky was a peaceful shade of blue, but the dark greenish hue of the river grew steadily darker as black spots swam in her vision; she took a deep, calming breath as her nose and throat inhaled icy water. Pyrrha stood utterly still as she forced herself to stay bent, to ignore the hysteria flooding her bodies. Cold water kept surging, forcing itself down her throat, and it swelled in her chest to burn like bile, filled her lungs to bursting; both of her shuddered as she watched her hands claw at the silt she felt between her empty fingers, and the world was too dark, too bright, as one heart shuddered with desperate panic while the other slowed and stuttered and stilled.

Pyrrha opened her only set of eyes and gasped for air. The world tilted under her, and she stumbled as she clutched at her aching heart. Alien terror leaked away from her as the sun shined brighter than it should, like a blinding eye leaning close to drink in her distress. She leaned forward on her knees and panted, nearly dizzy enough to fall, but she locked her legs into place. Heart and head thumped painfully as she glanced at the face-down body of the Gurg. It drifted away on the water with an incongruous serenity.

He had been fully aware, privy to every sensation and helpless to even twitch a finger. It was a dark spell, quite less useful than the Imperius Curse, as it only allowed for control of the body and not the mind, and had significant drawbacks. In the case of magic-resistant beings and beasts, it was a boon, but Pyrrha now wished even more fervently than before that there was another way to end the spell; the two-body sensation remained a major impediment to her using magic.

She ventured back into the forest on unsteady legs and retrieved Morrigan's staff before disapparating, hoping she hadn't just inflicted herself with a new phobia.


	4. Chapter 4

Pyrrha rejoined the world in a silent instant, arriving to the gentle sounds of the waves caressing the craggy beds of rock that comprised the majority of the coastline. Salty air filled her nose as she peered around, spying no one and nothing but water, stone, and hilly fields of tall, swaying grass in the middle distance. The coast was formed in part by interlocked hexagonal pillars of varying heights, creating remarkable natural formations against the ocean, like meandering stairs with no purpose, no destination.

She had apparated here directly after returning to Ireland via portkey, departing from the top of a muggle museum building in Dublin. She imagined the Irish authorities were rather annoyed with her by now, having made two illegal portkeys in one day. She wondered a moment how many she'd made in total over her twenty-nine years. It was surely more than one hundred.

This area was the approximate location she had gleaned from the Gurg's memories, but it still left her some ground to cover. Pyrrha marked her starting point with a hovering yellow star and paced the shore in both directions, senses alert for latent magic. Nothing was forthcoming.

She returned to her start and aimed her wand down the eastern side of the coast. There was a tug in her chest as blood poured from her wand and dispersed into a reddish mist, which was whisked away by the salty winds. A swig of bitter potion eased the bout of dizziness. She turned about and walked west, the late afternoon sun shining almost directly in her face, warm sunrays insufficient against the damp chill of coastal gusts and ocean spray.

Seawater splashed across her boots as she picked her way over the rocks. Pyrrha looked up sharply as gulls cried overhead, and she struck them down with resounding bolts of lightning. They fell to earth, smoking and charred, and Pyrrha shook her head at herself and her paranoia. She knew Daisy would be a little appalled, but also amused, and Pyrrha would respond that it was always better to be too cautious than not cautious enough.

What was Daisy doing, she wondered? Likely tending to her father's apothecary, charming customers into buying more than they needed with that sweet smile of hers. Or perhaps she was brewing, forehead creased in concentration as she stirred with surgical precision, frowning as she prepared and measured out ingredients with stained fingers. It was Sunday evening, Pyrrha reminded herself. Daisy would surely be glued to the wireless, waiting on tenterhooks for one of her radio dramas to resolve last week's cliffhanger and introduce yet another.

Pyrrha felt foolish for missing their school days, when they had spoken nearly every day; nothing was stopping them from catching up, except herself. But this was nothing new. Pyrrha had always been reserved, and it had never won her anyone's favor until third year, when Daisy had sat with her and initiated a near one-sided chat as if they were old friends. She hadn't seemed to mind Pyrrha's laconic replies. Gradually, Pyrrha's responses grew lengthier and more confident, and Daisy's smile when she spoke more than three words was worth the discomfort.

The difference now was that Daisy had responsibilities, and no opportunity to come chasing after her. Instead, Daisy would write letters replete with innocent inquiries that Pyrrha couldn't find the words to answer: How are you? Where are you? What are you doing? Why don't you visit? The thought of lying wasn't worth considering. Every day that Pyrrha failed to respond to a letter she worried that Daisy grew more and more resentful, to the point where she no longer cared for their friendship. Pyrrha would eventually succumb to melancholy and write a belated note conveying her sincere apologies, and expressing hope that they would remain in contact. Inexplicably and without fail, Daisy responded enthusiastically, and eventually, the cycle would begin again.

Daisy deserved much more than what Pyrrha gave her. Pyrrha often wondered if what she really deserved was freedom from the burden of her friendship.

Pyrrha shook her thoughts away with a sharp sigh and plunged a hand into her bag. Her fingers closed around the staff, and she pulled it out to inspect again as she walked. It was cold to the touch, as if freshly cut from a wintertime tree. The staff rose to her shoulder when set upon the ground, thick around as her upper arm, heavily twisted and knotted. The wood was wych elm, dried and darkened with age, worn smooth from long use in spots near the middle and top. The ridged grain of the branch swirled up and terminated in a spread of offshoots that resembled a gnarled hand, clutching fingers outstretched.

Most strangely, the staff felt . . . welcoming.

Pyrrha swapped the staff to her left hand and drew her wand. She ran it up and down the length of the staff for the third time, probing for any traces of a curse. There were none. The enchantments that permeated the wood were unfamiliar, but appeared to be benign in her case, at least. Pyrrha wondered how the staff would react to someone it deemed unsuitable; she suspected the reason it tolerated her was that she'd won some form of allegiance by freeing it from the Gurg.

Pyrrha stowed her wand and came to a halt, and she held the staff in both hands to aim at the ocean with an upward sweep; from the tides burst a flock of flittering birds shaped from water, transparent and gleaming in the sun like living diamonds. Pyrrha motioned the staff awkwardly, and they buzzed about in the air above her, spraying misty droplets with their furious wingbeats before wavering, dripping apart, raining seawater down as the cumbersome staff got the better of her.

She let go with her right hand and waved the droplets away, and they fell anywhere but where she stood and landed with a light patter. It was essentially as she had expected; the staff was impractical and unwieldy compared to her wand. Pyrrha was certain, however, that it would prove uniquely effective in the field of Legilimency and such related mental disciplines. The Gurg's brutal display was a testament to that.

Pyrrha winced as her chest tingled inside like insects crawling across her heart. Her dispersed blood had touched something, encountered a magical anomaly. Anticipation rose in her as she replaced the staff inside her bag and turned on the spot, reaching out with thought, focusing on the blood that called to her as she called to it. Oppressive darkness bit down on her and spat her out at a new section of the shore.

The telltale taste of enchantments on the briny breeze was immediately apparent. Pyrrha drew her wand and surveyed the area, treading the uneven terrain with care as she cast about. Old magic beckoned, led her further down the shore, and she breathed deeply of the salty air in attempt to quell the excitement thrumming in her veins. The sky was beginning to darken to an ocean blue as the sun crept down to the horizon behind her. Her perceptions led her to a halt at a nondescript length of coast where the air ahead tingled, as if awaiting an impending lightning strike.

Pyrrha's spells and senses alerted her to the web of concealment charms woven across the area, and she countered, nullified, drew them away one by one, like unraveling the threads of a silk-spun veil. The coast glowed with dim, sourceless light as Pyrrha cast, her arm maneuvering in the manner of a sanguine painter before a blank canvas. Reality parted like a curtain to reveal a cliff that reached up, stretched over the shoreline and resolved into a high plateau of stone that loomed over the sea. Pyrrha focused on the summit and began to apparate, but she stumbled, feeling inward pressure from all sides.

Dread began to pour into her at that moment, for even as she began casting again, she knew she would have to climb; the spell that had countered her apparition felt alien to her. With her jaw set stiffly, she invoked every counterspell in her considerable arsenal, to no effect. Pyrrha let her arm fall in defeat as she glowered at the cliff. When the force of her stare did not bring the craggy slope crashing down to a more tolerable height, she took several fortifying breaths before striding forward to meet the base of the rise.

The rhythmic lullaby of the tides washed out Pyrrha's footsteps as she surmounted level after level of honeycombed basalt pillars like slippery stairs. The traces of ancient magic led her up the gradual rise of stone, and her heart rate climbed with her as she strained to keep her eyes on her footwork and away from the unyielding ground that drew further and further away. The wind tugged at her robes, and her heart slammed against her ribs as she stumbled, catching herself with both hands on the rocks. Her arms and legs shook with adrenaline as she held the position, breathing increasingly labored.

Pyrrha resumed climbing, remaining on all fours like a pathetic animal. Shame mingled with the heart-clenching fright that worsened with every foot she ascended. Sweat coated her skin and dripped down her face, stung her eyes, and all she could hear was her own shuddering breaths and the pulse pounding in her head. Lightheaded, she gasped for oxygen, and no matter how much the air obliged her, her lungs wouldn't fill. She was drowning, drowning all over again. What if she passed out, right here and now? It was already happening; her hands fell numb as consciousness slipped away from her, and she was going to fall, and nothing would save her as her neck snapped against the ground and she died in one careless, irrevocable instant—

"Not yet," Pyrrha panted, vision flickering as she dragged herself higher still. "Get it—get it together . . . just a bit further . . ."

Pyrrha reached ahead without looking, probing for the next handhold, and her arm passed through empty air. With a jolt in her chest, she stumbled forward onto a flat outcropping of rock, scraping her palms. Her head shot up, and she stared around at the flat peak of the cliff. Relief surged through her as she scurried on shaky hands and knees to the center of the plateau and collapsed, letting her face press against the cool stone, shielding her sight from the cliff's precipitous edges. She laid there and caught her breath, blinking away sweat, not tears.

At length, Pyrrha pushed herself into a sitting position. Her gaze was drawn to the sinking sun, setting the distant horizon afire with dusky orange-red shot with pink, ensconced between the deep blues of sea and sky that pressed in with gentle inevitability, swallowing the last fleeting lights of day and wrapping the world in a fathomless shroud of twilight. The sea far below was reduced to a distant murmur. Crisp and sharp, the wind streamed through her hair and fluttered her robes.

Pyrrha closed her eyes and pressed a palm to the chilly stone. The enchantments in the cliff buzzed through her like a low current, tingling on the back of her tongue as they pervaded the air with a subtle, indescribable scent. She crept toward the edge that overlooked the sea, inch by inch, heart rate steadily climbing in proportion to her halting progress as she crawled with eyes firmly shut. She slid her hands along the rock, probing the eddies of magic that ebbed between her fingers. Her mind battered at her concentration with an assault of repeated images—slipping forward, helped along by a sudden strong gust, tumbling over the edge, falling, falling . . .

Pyrrha's fingers curled around the edge of the cliff and tightened in a death grip. Tremors quaked her, and her eyelids ached from clenching shut. She barked a short laugh despite herself. Every atom in her body, every corner of her mind protested her presence here, and they screamed in her ears that she was going to slip, fall, drown, die. Pyrrha drank in air, in and out, mechanically, in and out. Tranquility eluded her.

Pyrrha nearly leapt out of her skin as something smooth brushed up along her knuckles. Her eyes flew open, and before her, where there had been nothing, was a vast bridge. The Giants' Causeway.

It had risen silently from the depths of the sea, pillars of hexagonal stone magnitudes larger than the ones she had climbed to get here. The honeycombed surface was smooth and perfectly level, and not nearly wide enough for Pyrrha's liking. Far as her eyes could see, the bridge stretched away over the ocean and tapered into a tiny point in the distance. The stone bore no hint of erosion and appeared perfectly dry, as if it had been there protruding from the water all along, and it could have been, for all that Pyrrha had felt it rise along her hand. She hadn't exactly been watching carefully.

She scuttled back from the small gap between the cliff's edge and the bridge, equal parts wonderment and dread stirring within her. This was it: the penultimate confirmation of Morrigan's existence. All that remained was to walk the windswept bridge, with a sheer drop of hundreds of feet at either side into the depths of the sea. Would the impact kill her, or would she merely shatter, fully conscious and unable to move, to save herself as she sunk into the abyss?

Pyrrha wouldn't find any more answers today, and for the first time, that thought relieved her. It wasn't because she refused to cross the bridge, she told herself. The Cabal would be invaluable in this venture, and it only made sense to bring them in on it. Pyrrha would take risks with her own safety any day, but not Ashlin's. The Causeway and Spire Island would wait until tomorrow, when she would return refreshed, prepared, and with backup.

Still refusing to walk upright on the uneven summit, Pyrrha crawled back to the shallow slope that staggered down to the shadowy coast. Her stomach swooped at the thought of climbing back down; it seemed even more treacherous than the ascent had, somehow. At a reasonable distance from the edge she raised her wand to the cliffside, intending to shape out a wide set of smooth, even steps, but the enchanted stone resisted her. She tried to apparate away, only to meet the same negating force. She heaved a frustrated breath, embarrassed at what she was about to resort to.

Pyrrha held her wand loosely and concentrated on her body, on her blood streaming through her veins and suffusing her muscles, her skin, her tissues, and she inhaled slowly. As she let the breath escape, she released herself from her body's confinement and began to melt away. She watched her hands in fascination as they dissolved into a fine red mist along with her wand, and her senses faded as the rest of her followed suit.

Everything was black and silent as death; all that remained was feeling and thought. Pyrrha felt herself seep through her robes, felt them fall empty to the stone. She hung in the air like a senseless ghost, holding her dispersed self together as the breeze blew through her, threatening to scatter her, carry her away. Held fast by the force of her will, she hovered a moment, then allowed herself to sink, spreading her cloudy form low over the rock beneath her. The breadth of her tactile perception spanned the expanse of her vaporous being, every individual cell a fingertip against the stone, briefly brushing against her heaped clothing.

Pyrrha glided across the cliff's surface, following the downward slope as it skimmed under her. She floated down the decline, feeling momentarily content; there was little that could be done to harm her in this state. The descent progressed infinitely faster than the climb; as she felt her way forward, flowing in what she imagined was a low red sheet of mist, she did her best to ignore thoughts of what she knew must happen next. Apprehension built within her despite her efforts.

As was the way of things, the journey was over too quickly; craggy stone gave way to gravelly ground as the world leveled out under Pyrrha. She paused and collected herself, bracing for what came next.

Pyrrha felt every singular bit of her nebulous self as she swirled into a humanoid shape. She drew her being inward; her aeriform body condensed, pitch darkness pressed her in from all sides, and she felt like the center of a black hole, her diffuse particles compressing together. As her body reassembled itself, pain was the first thing to welcome her back. It seared through every fragment of her as they reunited. Her flesh was like an insect collective; miniscule pieces darted and swarmed over each other as they found their proper places, and with each bit of herself reassembled, the agony heightened.

Hearing came next, and the first sound was a groan. It came from her half-formed chest, gurgled out of an open throat until it finished shaping itself. Around her, the air was alive with sibilant hissing and buzzing as flesh melded, soon joined by wet trickles and squelches. Pyrrha gasped as she felt her lungs weave together with a crawling sensation.

Sight returned last, and Pyrrha almost wished it hadn't. The world went from black to bleary grey, to less blurred shades of darkness, until her vision was fully restored. She looked down and watched with morbid fascination as her body was remade before her eyes; even in the semidarkness she could see the network of muscles and arteries crossing her abdomen, the sinews snaking throughout her limbs, the pumping heart under her sprouting ribcage. With an unpleasant jolt, she realized her heart wasn't the bloody red she expected, but a splotchy, corroded black.

Pale skin materialized and swaddled her, a warm cloak against the frigid atmosphere that drew long knives across her innards. Pyrrha hung suspended in the air another moment as the last of her sank into place. Her nerves continued to flare as her naked body dropped to the ground, and she shuddered as the spell terminated. Her right hand clutched her wand in an iron grip while she waited out the pain that carved itself on her bones.

From where she lay, Pyrrha summoned her abandoned possessions with a weak flick. Her midnight blue robes fluttered out of the gloom and settled beside her, followed by her black boots, charmed bag and silver necklace with the dangling emerald. Her neck lifted with a twinge of protest as she secured the clasp. She sipped at a Philter of Respite from her pouch, allowing the pain to dull before standing and waving her wand again, directing her robes and boots to clothe her. The bag was secured in its place within her robes.

Pyrrha glanced at the soaring cliff as she prepared to apparate home, body throbbing like one all-encompassing, bone-deep bruise. As she remembered the climb, and imagined how the descent could have been, she felt the pain of rebirth was preferable. It was doubtful she would ever become accustomed to the spell's sensations, but it had too many applications to ignore. Her heart's degeneration would require addressing soon; she would need another way to conquer the heights tomorrow.

As she vanished, she decided she didn't care how dull the potion made her. She would require the Draught of Peace.

* * *

Pyrrha arrived to a yard bathed in light. After the gloom of the nighttime coast, the effect was momentarily blinding; she held a hand over her eyes as they adjusted, squinting up at the starry sky above the lawn. It was encircled by a series of charmed lights in a wide oval, imitating the curve of a quidditch pitch, sourceless beams directed inward. In the middle of the makeshift arena, three girls swooped and shrieked and laughed as two of them passed a quaffle between them, the third in the center swiping as it passed by.

"Come on! No bloody fair!" Ashlin said, darting high for the ball, fingertips just brushing its underside as it flew.

"Not fair, she says!" A girl with dusky skin and black, curly hair caught the quaffle and spun it on her finger, grin taunting. "If you can't outfly us on that fancy new broom, all hope's lost for us this year."

The third girl laughed from afar, bronze skin blending with her hair in the harsh illumination. "Maybe we should snap off a couple branches from the trees and run around on those, instead," she called. "Think she'd have a chance then, Nia?"

"Oh, sod off, the pair of you. I'm getting the hang of it!" Ashlin reversed course with a sharp maneuver, and Pyrrha's heart stalled; Ashlin shot up at an angle, hanging almost entirely upside down, and she snatched the quaffle from in front of Elise's outstretched hands with inches to spare. "See?" She spun upright, triumphant smile falling as she noticed Pyrrha on the ground.

"Shite," Elise said, following Ashlin's gaze. "There goes my buzz."

"Oh my God, Elise, shut your mouth!" Nia ran a hand across her face as the trio descended. "It's just butterbeer she means, Miss Clay!"

The girls landed in front of Pyrrha in a guilty lineup. Elise didn't bother to hide her annoyance, while Nia looked suitably nervous, fidgeting with her hair. Ashlin's face was pale and uncertain, searching her sister for a reaction; she knew Pyrrha was furious, but Pyrrha kept her demeanor carefully placid, deep and steady breaths to slow her heart racing with outrage and fear.

Pyrrha gestured, and a nearly empty bottle leapt into her hand from the lush grass. What little liquid remained was amber, though the label gave it right away, anyhow; Ogden's Old Firewhiskey.

Nia cleared her throat nervously, apparently unable to stand the silence as Pyrrha turned the bottle over in her hand idly. "We're sorry," she said, biting her lip. Elise rolled her eyes.

"For what?" Pyrrha said. "For lying to me, I suppose? It was silly of you." She handed the bottle back to a gaping Nia. "Neither of you intellects are my responsibility; you could spend your every weekend swilling Skower's Mess Remover on dragonback for all I care. However, if either of you allowed Ashlin to fly after even a single drop . . ."

"She wouldn't," Elise said, looking a little contemptuous.

Pyrrha nodded. "Good. And no, Ashlin doesn't think she's better than you. She simply has a modicum of common sense. I don't have to tell you three how foolish and dangerous it is to drink and fly." Elise blinked hard, expression indignant at being read or being called foolish, or both.

"We were safe about it," Nia insisted. "We put Cushioning Charms all over the yard!"

"Calm down, Nia," Elise said impatiently before turning back to Pyrrha. "It's like you said; you're not our mum. We'll be leaving now." She strode over and grabbed Nia's robes, reaching her other hand out to Ashlin while Nia gathered their brooms. "Come with us, Ash. She's not your mum either."

"I'm pleased to see you've grasped the fundamentals of the immediate family structure," Pyrrha said with a flash of anger. "Nevertheless, Ashlin and I are going to have a talk."

Ashlin smiled weakly at her friends. "I'll see you in a bit."

Elise scoffed. "We'll be back at mine, if you're allowed out after dark." She and Nia vanished with a sharp crack.

Silence reigned between the sisters for a full minute, and the rhythmic chirping of countless crickets claimed the air while Pyrrha gathered her thoughts, arms crossed tightly as she stared down at her shoes. The grass under Ashlin rustled as she shifted anxiously, arms wrapped around herself against the cool night air, braced for the fallout.

"I don't know what to say that I haven't reiterated before, one hundredfold. I don't give you many rules, and this is one of the biggest: _Don't fly without my supervision."_

Ashlin rubbed at her shoulders with a short sigh. "Nia wasn't lying, you know, about the Cushioning Charms. I did them myself. Elise fell once, and she was fine."

"I suppose you never flew over the forest, then? Or the house? I suppose you've never miscast a charm in your life?" Why couldn't she take this seriously?

"Oh my God, why are you such a paranoid freak?" Ashlin burst out, throwing out her arms. "It's about a one in a million chance something bad happens—I take a bigger risk shopping alone at Caerialto!"

"I've told you about Daisy's mother." Pyrrha flexed her hands behind her back, fighting for patience. "And no, you don't. I taught you the Patronus messenger for a reason. Any hint of trouble, and you can let me know, and I'll be there in an instant. But if you fell—"

"Well, you were there for Daisy's mum, like you love to remind me," Ashlin said, crossing her arms. "You didn't do her much good!"

Pyrrha jerked back as if slapped, reeling with astonished hurt as the words struck home. "You little brat—how dare you?"

"Me? How about you! You can't be Merlin-knows-where twenty-nine days out of the month and then come back and run my life, claiming to care for my safety!"

"Your safety is my priority," Pyrrha said. "It always has been. Your owls and Patronuses will always reach me. The spell I placed on you—"

"I regret ever submitting myself to your insane brand of sisterly concern," Ashlin snarled, red-faced. "Just more excuses to let you devote yourself to your stupid little secret projects without feeling guilty!"

"The spell I placed on you," Pyrrha continued as if she hadn't been interrupted, "tells me where you are, and if you're in pain. Short of locking you in the house under a Fidelius, you're as safe as it's possible to be."

"Fine!" Ashlin shouted. "Fine! I'm safe, mission accomplished! But I'm _miserable!"_ The raw hurt in her voice cut like a knife. "I _hate_ being here by myself, worrying about my maniac sister chasing down giants and ancient horrors and whatever the hell else you do when you're off somewhere, and here's me, waiting around without a hint when or even _if_ you'll ever come back!" Tears were shining in her eyes, and she took a quick, deep breath, the kind one takes just before committing to a reckless, life-changing decision. "And guess what? That bloody spell of yours works both ways!"

Pyrrha's breath caught with a quiet choke as numb horror flooded from her chest into her extremities, tingling at every inch, as if her heart had truly stopped, arrested her blood flow. It couldn't be true, but it was; she could see it in Ashlin's watery blue eyes, so full of tumultuous emotion that Pyrrha felt a brief, bizarre spike of envy.

The implications tore furrows through her head; Ashlin could feel her pain all this time. Pyrrha knew she carried scars on the inside, inflicted by the magics she had subjected herself to. Had Ashlin truly borne these experiences along with her, unwilling? The thought turned her blood. How much had she experienced, and to what extent? Why would she hide it?

Pyrrha's expression seemed to innervate Ashlin; she let out a triumphant little laugh as she carried on. "That's right! I know about it all, every injury since last summer. I never told you—I hoped I could figure out _something_ about what you get up to." Her voice gradually sank from righteous indignation to despondent sadness as she spoke. "But I'm not as smart as you are, Pyrrha. I haven't got a clue, even after all this time."

Ashlin swiped a stray tear from her cheek, raising her gaze to meet Pyrrha's, and they two were a near perfect mirror of devastation. "All I know," Ashlin said, "is that earlier today, I felt like I was drowning . . ." She shivered, pressing a hand to her chest. "It felt like—like dying . . . and you—I'd thought—" Ashlin choked, and she paused to master herself, deep and shaky breaths. "But an hour later, I knew you were alive, because I felt something else—something even _worse,_ and—and—weeks ago, I'd felt my arm torn off, and before that, like my blood was on fire, and before—"

Pyrrha broke from her loop of dismay and took a swift step forward, sweeping Ashlin into her arms. She pressed her sister's head into her robes to stem the words, to stem the tears, to seal shut the chasm that was forming inside her. Ashlin sobbed against her, arms clamped around Pyrrha like a lifeline, and it was their parents' deaths all over again. Pyrrha was once again powerless in the face of Ashlin's despair; she stared at the stars as Ashlin cried, knowing she must catch the words that fled her as unparalleled self-loathing burned inside. She had done this, hurt Ashlin in her ignorance.

Ashlin's bawling faded into soft weeping and sniffling as Pyrrha rubbed her back. "What's happening to you?" she whispered. "What are you doing to yourself?"

"I'm right here," Pyrrha said quietly. "Look at me. I'm alright." Pyrrha drew back and held her sister's blotchy face in her hands. "I'm sorry—I never meant you to feel those things. I'll remove the spell—"

"Damn it, Pyrrha, stop! Answer me—what the hell have you been doing out there?"

Pyrrha sighed and let her hands drop, bringing one up to run through her hair, but it was bound. "I'm sorry, Ashlin, I can't tell you." Pyrrha had to give her more, had to cure her of that lost, crumbling look. "I . . ." Pyrrha paused, considering her words with utmost care. "I've made a . . . commitment." She thought not of the Vow as she said it, but the promise to herself, Ashlin, and their parents. No small amount of relief swept through her when she remained stubbornly alive.

Ashlin's eyes widened, and Pyrrha knew she'd caught the subtext. "A commitment . . . a Vow?" she asked breathlessly.

Pyrrha kept her head perfectly still as she forced herself not to react, nod, smile, acknowledge her pride in Ashlin. Instead, she said, "That is a dangerous question to ask."

Ashlin swallowed hard and nodded, expression more grave than it ever should've been, yet another failing of Pyrrha's. "I understand, I think," she said. She bit her lip before adding, "Is there . . . anything at all you can tell me?"

Pyrrha held out a hand to summon the Nimbus, then circled her other arm around Ashlin's shoulders, and she around Pyrrha's waist, and together they walked leisurely across the lawn. It glowed a dim amber under the fading light charms. "I'm doing this for us. For you."

They met the door, and Ashlin turned under Pyrrha's arm and hugged her again, squeezing, as if she could force answers from her sister if only she were strong enough. "Whatever it is, it's not worth losing you."

It was.

"Please," Ashlin added, "stop putting yourself in danger. That's all I want."

"I wish I could give you that, Ash, but I can't," Pyrrha said, thoughts turning to Morrigan as she stroked Ashlin's hair. "I'll tear down whatever in this world rears its head if it keeps you—"

"Safe." The word cracked in Ashlin's throat.

* * *

Pyrrha stood up from her chair, hands clasping behind her back. "Thank you all for assembling on such short notice. I've got something of vital importance to discuss today, with a corresponding proposal for your consideration."

Around the scuffed round table, six faces regarded her with a healthy mix of polite curiosity, boredom, and irritation. The room was bathed in the soft golden glow of the luminescent mushrooms sprouting from the dark walls and ceiling. Harsher light shone from a grand fireplace set into the center of the wall opposite the Call Mirror, which sat atop an elegant chestnut vanity. The backlit silhouettes of the Cabal filled the mirror like a sinister painting.

To Pyrrha's immediate right, Wasila lounged with her legs draped over the arm of her chair. Today, she had chosen pale skin and stormy grey eyes. Her oval-shaped face was framed by a few renegade locks of dark brown hair, the rest pulled back into loose pigtails that fell down just past her shoulders. Her ubiquitous Cheshire cat smile was firmly in place as she lazily twirled her wand between her fingers.

Next around was Byron, all but concealed behind the billowing violet vapors of the lit cauldron that sat on the table before him. His head of wild brown hair leaned perhaps too close to the fumes to be entirely healthy, and he pushed his glasses back up his sweaty nose as he frowned intently at his brewing concoction, waving his wand and muttering under his breath.

Next to him, Aradia sat nearly across from Pyrrha, her bony hands folded on the tabletop. She was the picture of serenity, but for her irritated glances at Byron as violet fog drifted around the table in spiraling waves. She drew her wand and vanished the fumes, sparking a brief argument on the hazards of indirect magical interference on an active brew.

Maven occupied Aradia's other side. At eighty-nine, she was the oldest member of the Cabal. Her iron-grey hair was pulled into a bun as severe as her wrinkled countenance. Her perpetual scowl was directed at a miniature model solar system that revolved above the glowing tip of her wand. Pyrrha noticed with vague curiosity that the system contained at least twenty planets.

Then there was Eilith, a witch Pyrrha vaguely recalled seeing in passing during their time at Hogwarts. She glared down her long nose at Pyrrha from under a mop of light brown hair, looking as if she were subjecting Pyrrha to unpleasant transformations in her head. She tapped her wand against the table impatiently, changing the texture each time—furry, slimy, scaly, stone.

Lastly, to Pyrrha's immediate left, Irving slouched forward, looking disheveled as usual in wrinkled green robes. He stared alternately at Pyrrha and some indistinct point in the middle distance, expression unfocused, as if lost in reminiscence. His bleary eyes were ringed with heavy, dark circles, the rest of his lined face concealed by long, tangled grey hair and a bushy beard.

Byron drew a pinch of something silvery from a pouch and sprinkled it across his cauldron's bubbling surface. The potion fizzed and turned a startling shade of orange, accompanied by a revolting stench that overpowered the room. The table became an uproar of furious shouting and retching as Pyrrha calmly placed a Bubble-Head Charm on herself, tinting the slightly distorted room sky blue.

"For fuck's sake, Berners, do you have to do that here?" Eilith said, pinching her nose. "Go back to your grotty little basement and keep your poisons to yourself!"

"It's not poison," Byron said distractedly as he stirred, leaning as far away as he possibly could while remaining within reach. "And yes, I must attend to this—very delicate part of the process—"

"Your brew is a failure, Byron. It is not fated for you to succeed today; you may as well spare us and pack it up." Maven hadn't taken her eyes off the miniature planets revolving over her. She was the only one who appeared unbothered by the smell.

"A failure? You can't know that, I haven't yet tested—"

"Sorry, Byron, but I'd say she's right." Wasila's voice was at a lower pitch than last week, Pyrrha thought, though she retained the usual cadence of a bored aristocrat. "It smells as if you drowned a stray dog in raw sewage and boiled the results. I can't imagine that reflects your desired outcome, unless you are, in fact, making poison . . . or some sort of plague?" Wasila raised a questioning eyebrow.

Byron regarded her warily. "As I said, it's nothing like that—not intended to be, anyway." He peered into the cauldron again as he continued to stir with one arm, the other draped across his face. The potion had lightened to a sickly yellow-green.

"Byron," Aradia said with an edge of impatience, "we are not gathered to critique your potioneering. Put it away or abstain your vote, if you please."

"Yes, yes, of course. My apologies, Pyrrha." Byron nodded at Pyrrha, and she returned it. "The tricky stage is over, anyway. I'll just—" He swirled his wand at the stirrer, which began to move itself in slow, even clockwise strokes. He flicked at the cauldron and it vanished, presumably transported to the extensive laboratory in the Lodge's basement.

Pyrrha was unruffled by Byron's distraction; she admired his fervor, his dedication to whatever task had so consumed him in the past two years. The entirety of her time with the Cabal, and longer, Pyrrha suspected, the man had spent in relentless pursuit of . . . something. Questions regarding personal projects were discouraged within the Cabal unless invited, and Byron had never offered any information. The only hint was the grim-faced volunteers Pyrrha occasionally spotted following Byron into the basement, robes hanging from their pale frames. They always failed to reappear.

Pyrrha dispelled her bubble, cleared her throat and prepared to speak, but Wasila cut her off.

"Sorry, love, one moment." She leaned past Pyrrha and swept her wand toward a dozing Irving, and his head snapped to the side as a sharp slap rang through the room.

Irving woke with a yawn, quite oblivious to the strike. "Shame," he mumbled in his croaky voice. "That was a good one."

"Your wife?" Maven asked softly.

"Yes . . . we were reunited, young and in love again . . . I held her in my arms, and . . ." Irving frowned. "And then, well, she slapped me. Quite hard." He rubbed at his reddened cheek. "Rather odd."

Eilith snickered, but said nothing. Wasila leaned back into her previous relaxed posture, grinning. "You have the floor," she told Pyrrha. "Regale us!"

The Cabal appraised Pyrrha with increasingly rapt attention as she launched into her tale, beginning with a reading of the Nightmare Queen legend as written in her father's old storybook. The group considered her with mixed skepticism and exasperation as she concluded the story, until she detailed her father's extensive corroborating research. She shared stacks of books and parchment with references and cross-references from credible historical sources, verifying her lineage and the timeline of certain events, including the massacre at the edge of the Wild Woods, and Fionn's meeting with the giants.

"Shut up a moment, Clay," Eilith interjected. "Why does it matter if you're possibly descended from this bloke McCoul?"

"It doesn't matter to you," Pyrrha said, "but the legend made it clear that my family will be her first target when she escapes."

Eilith uttered a short laugh, conveying her apathy to Pyrrha's situation. "And how, exactly, would a mad old undead witch from a thousand years ago learn who you are, or where to find you?"

"That's our _Rosier,_ asking the sharp questions," Wasila said, eyes shining with mocking amusement. "Now, Pyrrha," she said as she turned to Pyrrha with an exaggerated thoughtful expression, "correct me if I'm faulty, here, but I _think_ you mentioned something about a certain talent this Morrigan has. You know the one; the ability to make things happen that seem impossible, right? Now, what's the word we use for that phenomenon? It's just on the tip of my tongue . . ." Wasila snapped her fingers. "Ah, that's it! Magic!"

Eilith reddened as murmurs of laughter sounded around the table. "Bugger yourself with a broom handle, Harcourt."

Wasila's eyebrows shot up. "Is _that_ how you pleasure yourself? It explains rather a lot about your churlish attitude . . . and the low whistling from your direction when it gets drafty."

"Enough!" Aradia said as Eilith opened her mouth in a snarl, expression murderous. "Pyrrha, please continue."

Pyrrha hadn't anticipated holding back a smile as she recounted yesterday's events. Face carefully neutral, she detailed her search for the giants and her subsequent encounter with the same, omitting her run-in with the FS3 and her use of blood magic. She spoke of the memories she had seen in the Gurg's head, and the staff he had wielded, its use on his fellow giants. She described the staff and the effects she had observed in exhausting detail. The table took in her words with increasing interest; even Maven tore her eyes from her planets and vanished them with a flick.

"Do you have this staff now?" Irving asked, looking alert. "May we examine it?"

"I have it, yes." Pyrrha hesitated. "I'm not certain it's a good idea to let anyone else touch it."

Eilith snorted. "If _you_ can handle it, the rest of us can."

"Best not let Rosie near it, or it's likely to end up somewhere foul," Wasila said with a sly smile.

"If you don't shut your fu—"

"I think," Aradia cut in loudly, "if you want to convince us, Pyrrha, we must see this staff for ourselves. I believe I speak for us all when I say that we are aware of the potential danger, and we wish to examine it regardless."

Maven nodded her wizened head solemnly. "Mental magics are a trying discipline, to say the least, but Irving excels at Occlumency. If he's willing to take the chance, I would see the staff's power for myself."

"I am quite willing," Irving assured them.

"I agree," Byron said, scratching at his stubble thoughtfully. "I'm intrigued by your story thus far, but there's not enough hard evidence to back you up."

Pyrrha sighed her resignation. "Very well." She plunged a hand into her bag and gently drew out the staff, placing it in the center of the table. The group scrutinized it curiously, eyes glued to the twisted wood as if it might burst into spontaneous magic at any moment. "Be cautious," she said to Irving.

"Of course, of course," Irving muttered, brow furrowing as he drew his wand and gestured, sending the staff floating toward him. At wandpoint, he turned it this way and that in the air, eyeing it from every conceivable angle, mumbling incantations under his breath the whole while. The rest of the group were taut with anticipation, Pyrrha included.

Abruptly, Irving beckoned, and the staff flew into his open hand. He stiffened in his seat and froze, hand still outstretched, holding the staff in a white-knuckled grip. The rest of the table leaned in as Irving's eyes darted around the room, open wider than Pyrrha had ever seen them. Muscles twitched in his face as he fought the staff. The old man's breathing escalated into frantic panting, and tears welled in his bloodshot eyes. A low moan escaped his throat, dragged out of him, and Pyrrha decided the point was made.

She drew her wand and disarmed Irving with a flash of light, snatching the staff out of the air as his wand clattered to the floor. Goosebumps rose where the staff sent a chill up her arm.

"Irving?" Pyrrha said gently. "What did you see? What did you feel?"

"Are you hurt?" Maven added, shooting Pyrrha an irked glance.

Irving caught his breath unevenly, leaning forward against the table. He wiped at his eyes under the hair hanging in his face, then sat back with a shaky exhalation. "I am well, I think . . ." Irving took another breath and raised his red-rimmed eyes to the assembled, who hung on his words. "The staff . . . I'm afraid it's impossible to determine for certain whether or not this instrument in fact belonged to the witch of legend. However," he said, "it is quite unique . . . as you have just witnessed." He glanced uneasily at the staff where Pyrrha had placed it upon the table again.

"Go on," Eilith said. "What did it do?"

"Ah, yes, well . . ." Irving trailed off, shifting in his seat to locate his fallen wand, stalling to gather himself, Pyrrha thought. She let him search for another few moments, then sent his wand drifting back to him from a corner of the room with a gentle wave of her hand.

"Thank you," Irving said, and Pyrrha nodded, giving him an encouraging look. "Now, then, let's see . . ." Irving sighed and began his recounting with a grimace. "The first thing I experienced was an intense cold, as if I were frozen solid. The sensation spread quickly from my arm to the rest of me. I couldn't move an inch." He paused, and Pyrrha could tell he longed not to continue. Before she could prod him, he spoke again, looking as if a knife were twisting in his heart. "I then felt . . . unearthly sadness. Utter despair, at a depth that I've only experienced once in my lifetime, and had hoped never to feel again. I saw Isabel . . . her body, in the ward. I relived that moment . . . the moment I woke from beside her, to find her . . . gone."

Irving fell silent again, and a tear trailed down his weathered cheek to disappear into his beard as he stared at the table. Pyrrha felt her excitement at the proceedings dampen a little as sympathy stirred in her. She imagined reliving the day a polite, awkward Ministry official knocked on her door, haltingly informing her of her parents' deaths by poorly cast portkey. The day she hadn't allowed Ashlin to help her identify the scattered remains, had held Ashlin all night as she sobbed into Pyrrha's shirt.

Pyrrha realized, with an unpleasant lurch in her stomach, the reason the staff didn't effect her nearly so strongly as Irving. That day, the worst day of her life, was also the day she knew she was a monster. What else but a monster would cradle their mourning sister without a hint of emotion, would look upon the remains of their loving parents feeling nothing but emptiness?

If she couldn't find it in her wretched self to despair their loss, did she ever truly love them? Did she love Ashlin?

Pyrrha felt an odd tickle at her neck, and she caught Wasila watching her curiously. With a start, she realized Irving was speaking again.

"—ency only seemed to delay the inevitable," Irving said, looking disgruntled. "Whether this is due to the staff's power or my own flawed techniques, I cannot say. How long did I manage to, er, hold out?"

"Roughly fifteen seconds," Byron supplied.

"Truly?" Irving said, face a mix of surprise and disappointment. "It felt . . . much longer."

"I suspect," Aradia said, "the act of holding the staff, it being aligned with another—" she glanced oddly at Pyrrha "—gave the thing some sort of leverage. This sort of desperate instinct for self-preservation in a focus is . . . remarkable," she added, contemplating the staff grimly over her steepled fingers. "Troubling."

"What did you learn from your preliminary examination?" Pyrrha asked. "I believe it's made from wych elm, though I haven't been able to determine the core."

"Wych elm, indeed," Irving said with a nod. "Well suited to those of presence, of magical dexterity. To those who have the potential to surpass the higher thresholds of skill." He tugged at his beard thoughtfully, eyes glazing over slightly. "As for the core, I've no idea, I'm afraid. I'm no expert with regard to wandlore, of course, not compared to the average wandmaker, though I am somewhat familiar with the subject. What I can say," he said, holding up a crooked finger, "is that it's nothing I've ever encountered before—not phoenix or thunderbird feather, dragon heartstring, unicorn or thestral tail hair . . ." Irving shook his head slowly, apologetically.

"Thank you, Irving. I appreciate your help, and I apologize—I didn't anticipate such an ordeal for you," Pyrrha said. "You'll have a favor from me, well earned."

Irving smiled tiredly and nodded.

"So, is there any way to find out what sort of core it uses?" Wasila asked, eyes lit with curiosity. "Could we . . . open it?" She directed the question at Irving.

"Why does it matter?" Eilith jumped in before Irving could speak. "I thought Pyrrha called us here to discuss the 'Nightmare Queen'," she said, using heavy air quotes. "Not some staff that may not even relate to her at all."

"Clearly it does," Wasila said, looking as if she were restraining herself from rolling her eyes. "Pyrrha laid it all out. It makes sense."

Eilith scoffed, shooting Pyrrha her familiar unfriendly glance. "If you take her at her word. She's got no evidence. Just a cursed weapon."

"I am of a mind with Eilith," Aradia said, and Pyrrha gave her a betrayed look. "I'm sorry, but she is correct; while certainly unusual, the staff adds little to your case for Morrigan's supposed existence."

"Very well," Pyrrha said, undaunted as she stowed the staff in her bag. "If I may conclude my findings?"

At Aradia's nod, Pyrrha jumped into the final, most vital piece of her argument. She described her scouting of the coast, the old enchantments around the lonely cliff hiding it from the world for a millennium. Her account of the ascent was clipped and clinical, giving no hint to the trial it had been. Finally, the summit of the cliff, the apex of her evidence; the Giants' Causeway, ancient and monolithic as a myth should be, and irrefutable proof of her assertions.

Pyrrha drew her wand and summoned a piece of parchment the size of a poster. She hung it in the air behind her, then pressed her wand to her temple, drawing out a strand of memory. It twinkled in the dimly lit room as it swirled up to the parchment and spread across its surface like an ethereal ink stain. The colors darkened from lightly shimmering silver-blues to darker shades, details sharpening from the indistinct grey blur. The parchment resolved itself into a perfect picture of the Causeway from Pyrrha's own eyes as she peered out over it, the legendary expanse that stretched its pallid grey finger across the sea to nudge the murky horizon.

"The Causeway exists, and Morrigan festers at the end of it. I can bring you there to see for yourself whenever necessary."

Stunned silence followed her proclamation. A lone creature shrieked from somewhere in the Lodge, a drawn-out sound as if glass were tearing like cloth, and Pyrrha vanished her parchment as she primly reclaimed her seat.

Aradia broke the expectant pause in the air. "I see," she said, rubbing at her eyes. "As we are all no doubt aware, lies and false memories can be woven by someone of sufficient skill—"

"Oh, come now, Aradia!" Wasila said.

"—however," Aradia continued, "it is also true that Pyrrha would gain nothing from wasting our time so foolishly. In light of everything we have seen and heard, I am inclined to believe her," she concluded, looking pensive.

"As am I," Byron put in, adjusting his crooked spectacles.

"And me," Wasila said, shooting Pyrrha a wide smile.

Irving nodded lethargically. "I, as well."

Maven shrugged her narrow shoulders, stargazing once again. "I knew it already."

The assembled shifted their eyes to Eilith, who snorted impatiently. "Yeah, whatever. Can we hurry this up? I've got to feed my creatures."

Pyrrha allowed herself a feeling of triumph for a moment, but this was only the first step. What came next was still very much up in the air.

"We have agreed to accept your story as truth for the time being, Pyrrha, and, in effect, we hereby acknowledge the existence of the witch Morrigan," Aradia said, looking at her with eyes wrinkled with an unseen burden, as if she knew what came next and regarded it with resigned apprehension. "Now is the time to make your proposal."

Pyrrha inclined her head assuredly, a far cry from the nervous turmoil inside. She reminded the Cabal of Morrigan's terrible power, her murderous temperament, and the threat she posed to everything around her. She cautioned of the Nightmare Queen's canny nature, asserting that her escape was inevitable, if not for her skill, then for the slow decay of time that the witch had proven herself equal to. When the enchantments weakened enough, in five years, fifty, or five hundred, Morrigan would escape, a threat to humanity that only the most puissant wielders of magic could overcome.

"That's exactly who we are," Pyrrha said with conviction. "With our efforts combined, we can release her from her torment and send her into the next life, saving countless others in the process."

Pyrrha had hoped to inspire the Cabal, spur them to action in defense of humanity. What she got instead were faces wrought with apprehension, a free-flowing exchange of uncertain glances all around. Byron scratched at the back of his head, looking awkward. Wasila peered around at the rest of them, expression unreadable, while they allowed the silence to swell in the room.

A soft laugh came from Eilith, who smirked as she twirled a lock of hair around the tip of her wand; it melded and became a thin black serpent tasting the air with a darting tongue. "I'll say what we're all thinking: why the bloody hell is this our problem?"

"As I've said, Morrigan is a threat to everyone. And she will escape."

"Seems that way," Eilith said, sounding decidedly unconcerned. "But according to you, it could be ages from now."

"It could also be tomorrow."

"The island's magic's held up for a thousand years."

Pyrrha's patience was beginning to strain. "All the more reason to act now, before something happens we're not prepared for."

"Bloody stupid," Eilith said, shaking her head. The snake in her hair hissed at the abrupt motion. "I'm not risking my neck on the off-chance she escapes in my lifetime. We should do precisely _nothing_ until she actually manages to break free. If she doesn't, then, brilliant! Curse dodged."

Pyrrha sent her a withering glare. "You'd let your cowardice condemn future generations to death?"

"Bugger future generations," Eilith said with an emphatic nod, seeming amused by Pyrrha's disgust.

Pyrrha simmered with outrage, and it bled into her voice despite her efforts. "I hope the rest of you aren't so feckless," she said quietly, meeting their eyes one by one. Byron and Irving shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, while Wasila grinned and gave a wink.

"Well," Aradia said after a minute. "I think we've said all there is to say, heard everything to hear on this subject. We have two options before us." She raised a bony hand toward Pyrrha, and anxious anticipation rose within her; this was the defining moment of her efforts. "We can strike first: release the witch from her prison before she escapes and attempt to subdue her, undo the magic tethering her to this life and deliver her into the next.

"Or," she went on, her other hand indicating Eilith, "we could do nothing, and hope that Fionn McCoul's sorceries continue to keep Morrigan in check for the rest of our natural lives, setting the burden of the Nightmare Queen squarely upon the shoulders of future wizardkind."

A palpable tension filled the room in the wake of Aradia's proposals. Pyrrha felt the familiar stirrings of anxiety, stomach tightening as she looked around at the rest. Irving tugged at his beard, agitated, while Byron seemed to be fascinated with a patch of discoloration on the ceiling. Maven coaxed her planets into various orientations, mouth set in a firm line. Eilith looked irritated and impatient, Wasila calm, and Aradia grim.

"The time has come to vote," Aradia announced. For a moment, everything was still. "Those in favor of striking first will raise a hand."

Pyrrha raised her arm immediately, closely followed by Wasila and no one else. She stared around the table in stunned disbelief, and the reality sank in, dragging her hope into the dirt. The Cabal had proven themselves spineless, willing to endanger Ashlin and countless others by their inaction; that was fine. Pyrrha would destroy Morrigan herself. She never needed them. She let her hand fall, striving to keep her fury from twisting her expression.

"Sorry, Pyrrha," Byron said meekly. "I'm just not cut out for that sort of thing."

Pyrrha stood, shrugging off Wasila's hand on her shoulder, and she turned away without a word. Only her bootheels against the wood floor broke the silence as she strode to the fireplace, snatching the Floo jar from the mantel and seizing a handful of powder, crushing the fine grit against her palm. She flung the powder into the fire with more force than necessary.

As the flames sputtered and turned a brilliant emerald, Aradia's voice called from behind. "Remember that the vote binds us all; you are not to take action—"

Pyrrha stepped into the pleasantly warm flames, and they swallowed her as she thought of home.

* * *

The Clay fireplace deposited Pyrrha into the sitting room in a cloud of ash. She vanished it with a sharp flick of the wrist as she stepped away, blinking at the sudden contrast of the midday sunlight sending a pale glow throughout the house. Ashlin stood from the cozy armchair by the largest window, smile carrying a hint of guilt as she placed the careworn book she'd been holding on the nearby end table.

Pyrrha barely registered her sister as she swept by the low oak coffee table and around the couch, storming across the room, down the hall past the portrait of Daphne Greengrass that Ashlin had begged for and tired of in a week. She threw open the door on the left and stormed into her room—her elbow sent a stack of dusty books tumbling, head still buzzing with contempt for the Cabal, the faint-hearted little worms; how could they find the gall to dismiss all the lives that Morrigan would take, not a second thought to be had in their swollen heads?

It didn't matter, Pyrrha repeated to herself. She could do it alone. She would do it alone. She breathed, clamped down on the churning pit of dread in her stomach that fueled her furor. Despite herself, her clenched hands trembled, and she snarled, swiping out a hand to the unlit oil lamps. They flared to life for a fleeting instant before bursting in a flash of fire, a series of pops followed by a light shower of glass against the hardwood floor.

Pyrrha stood still and stared at the shards, body coiled painfully tight. She inhaled the dust swirling in the air, watched the particles catch the beams of sun shining down from her high window as they danced, drifting in wild spirals at the direction of the imperceptible currents of air wafting about. Nothing that mattered depended on the scattered motes; she felt envy prickle in her chest for their futile existence.

"Hey." Ashlin's voice made her jump, but she didn't turn around. When she remained silent, the shattered glass floated from the floor and reassembled into her lamps, which fixed themselves back in their proper places on the walls. The fallen books drifted up and stacked themselves back on the edge of her mahogany desk. Black burn marks marred the dark blue walls where the lamps had detonated; Pyrrha watched them as the were wiped away by an invisible hand.

Quiet feet padding behind her was her only warning as Ashlin crushed Pyrrha in a hug. She was deceptively strong for such a slender girl; she should've been a beater. Pyrrha felt her tempestuous emotions drain away from her, leaving only subtle warmth behind.

"I'm sorry," Ashlin said into her back.

The apology caught Pyrrha by surprise. She wrapped her hands over Ashlin's around her torso. "Whatever for?" Last night had been the best sort of fight one could have, Pyrrha thought; the kind that ended in mutual understanding, and a promise of change for the better.

"For what I said about you and Daisy's mum. That was really awful of me." Her tone was full of regret; Pyrrha couldn't have held a grudge if her life depended on it.

"I forgive you, Ash," Pyrrha said softly. "You deserve to be angry with me. You were right; I've been an abysmal guardian—I've neglected—"

"No," Ashlin said fiercely. "You're the best sister there is, and I won't hear a word against that. I mean it!" she added as Pyrrha shook her head, a soft smile forming on her face.

"Ashlin, you're far too forgiv—uh!" Pyrrha coughed as Ashlin squeezed her even tighter, pushing the air from her lungs. "Goodness," she panted, "what have I been feeding you?"

Ashlin giggled, mercifully relenting her attack. "Nothing, you twit, I feed myself . . ." Her voice sank as she trailed off.

Pyrrha stepped away with a sigh, dropping down onto the bed shoved into the corner. "Yes, that's true."

"But you taught me to cook," Ashlin said quickly, sitting next to her. "You've taught me loads of things."

"Perhaps I'm a passable tutor, then, but that's not what you need—not what I'm supposed to be. You need me, and I haven't been here." Pyrrha turned and met Ashlin's eyes. "That's going to change," she promised.

Ashlin's eyes widened, and she broke into a big smile. "I like where this is going. Do _elucidate,_ dear sister."

Pyrrha chuckled. "My. Where did you pick up a fancy word like that?"

"Such trivialities are unequivocally extraneous!" Ashlin declared, head tilted up with a ridiculous superior expression, as if she were looking down at an irksome bug begging to be squashed.

Pyrrha laughed, pressing a hand over her mouth. "That had better not be an impression of me. That's awful . . . Do I really make that face?"

Ashlin's eyes were lit with mischief as she grinned. "Not quite as bad, but yeah, sometimes. Remember—" she broke into a fit of giggles "—remember when you told off Professor Ludington during that match in fourth year?"

The Professor had refereed the match, and Pyrrha had watched him blatantly ignore a dangerous foul against Ashlin by a Slytherin beater. Pyrrha had yanked them both from the air to her spot in the bottom of the stands, and she'd made them understand precisely the way things would be from then on, and why.

"Yes, I remember," Pyrrha said.

Ashlin laughed, pointing. "Oh my God, that's it—that's the look! Oh, I love that memory. Professor Ludington's been much nicer to me since then."

Pyrrha smiled. "And the boy?"

"He still avoids me, even in the hallways," Ashlin said with a satisfied smile, and then she smacked Pyrrha on the arm. "Sorry, didn't mean to derail things. Say what you were going to say." She straightened up, the picture of an eager pupil.

Pyrrha undid her hair charm with a twitch of her arm and ran a hand through it. "Yes . . . well, I can't make any promises regarding the near future. I'm going to be quite busy preparing to deal with Morrigan for a while." Ashlin's face fell, and Pyrrha continued to think. "Here's what I'll do: I'll bring all of my research materials, everything that isn't dangerous, back here. I'll spend as much time here as I possibly can; I bet you'll be sick of me soon enough."

Ashlin grinned. "I'm pretty much there already," she said wryly, "but I'm even more sick of you disappearing, so it's a net positive."

"And, after Morrigan is dealt with . . ." Pyrrha met her sister's expectant eyes, her own deadly serious. "I'll be done with it all. I'll put my . . . studies on hold until you've graduated Hogwarts and gotten a stable job."

"So, wait, you'll be here next summer? The whole time?" Ashlin's elation was almost incomprehensible, but Pyrrha was more than glad for it.

"The whole time," Pyrrha promised. She put on a thoughtful look. "Perhaps we'll go somewhere fun, like Scamander's Magical Creature Preserve, and a Greyhounds game."

Ashlin pounded a fist into the bed, sending up a plume of dust. "You did _not_ just say 'and'!"

"I'm almost certain I did," Pyrrha said, unable to keep a smile away.

"Your attempts to buy my love are subtle as a bludger to the face," Ashlin said, shaking her head woefully before throwing herself onto Pyrrha. "They're also very effective." Ashlin went into a bout of coughing, waving away the dust in the air as she sat back up. "God, it's like you butchered a family of dust devils in here."

"Well, isn't that a lovely image." Pyrrha drew her wand and swept it across the room. Every particle of dust rose in the air to form a cloud of grainy mist, and at a twirl, the cloud condensed in the middle of the room and formed a small grey dragon, miniature scales and all, rising and falling with each flap of its hand-sized wings. Pyrrha stood and directed the creature out the door and down the hall, Ashlin following behind as she led it to the front entry, which opened with a quick gesture.

They stepped out onto the yard, sunlight wrapping them in a warm blanket as they watched the dust dragon loop and dart around in the sky. The trees at the lawn's edge swayed peacefully, as if waving in lazy welcome. The gentle breeze carried earthy forest scents to them and mingled with the crisp air.

Ashlin giggled as the dragon belched a little plume of dust before twisting into a spiral. "Reminds me of Mr. Puffy. Whatever happened to him?"

"You did," Pyrrha said, raising an eyebrow. "You turned him into a dragon conjuration with _Draconifors."_

Ashlin cringed. "Right, I forgot—then Mum panicked and blasted him to bits. Sorry about that." Ashlin's eyes followed the dust dragon's acrobatics high above the yard, a soft smile on her lips, and she snorted suddenly. "D'you know what I've just realized?"

"I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

Ashlin uttered a laugh. "I am! Y'know that rule of yours, the one you take _really_ seriously?" she said, voice thick with sarcasm.

Pyrrha sighed and restrained herself from rolling her eyes. "That would be all of them, as you well know."

"Yeah, but the big one—no flying without your supervision? You attend every match, but—" Ashlin burst into laughter for a moment "—but I've broken that rule dozens of times—every year, when I go to practices! You never even thought to . . ." she trailed off at the smile on Pyrrha's face, her own expression one of stunned disbelief.

"Yes?" Pyrrha prompted.

 _"No,"_ Ashlin breathed. "You have _not_ been to all my practices . . ." Her eyes were nearly popping out of her head. " . . . have you?"

Pyrrha nodded crisply. "Every one."

"But you—wha—why didn't I ever bloody see you?" Ashlin cried. "Were you just _lurking_ there, invisible? That's—you're mental! Absolutely, utterly mental! Don't you know people go to prison for that sort of thing?"

"Yes, that's why I was invisible," Pyrrha said.

"You're not funny!" Ashlin said loudly. "Why didn't you ever tell me you were there?"

Pyrrha ran a soothing hand over Ashlin's hair. "I didn't want to interrupt your time with your friends, or make things uncomfortable." Pyrrha smiled fondly. "Watching you have fun and be a carefree child, just for a while, without my presence reminding you to worry about me, having you give me concerned glances . . ." Pyrrha sighed. "I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have kept that from you, but . . . it was always the high point of my day."

Ashlin's anger visibly deflated into something resembling sullen acceptance. "S'pose that makes sense," she said, and she punched Pyrrha's arm. "I still would've rather known, though!"

"Well, now you do."

They fell silent once more and returned to watching the little dust dragon's aerial tricks. It swooped and dived, blown off course by a sudden strong gust. It nearly collided with Pyrrha, and Ashlin laughed as they ducked; the dragon darted away, flapping furiously to regain height as if fleeing in fear of retribution.

Pyrrha nodded at the dragon. "Why don't you get your broom? Show me just how skilled you are?"

Ashlin grinned, drew her wand and summoned her broom, which shot straight through a window, showering the lawn with glass. "Whoops," she said, mending the window with a gesture before mounting her Nimbus.

"I'll wager you can't catch him in two minutes or less," Pyrrha said, flashing a smile in challenge.

Ashlin scoffed. "You're on! Loser has to cook. I'd like chicken parm, if you don't mind." She paused in the act of kicking off, a somewhat lost look on her face as she trained her eyes on the dragon. "There's a joke to be made here about narcotics, but I can't quite puzzle it out."

Pyrrha chuckled, giving Ashlin a little push on the shoulder. "Just fly, you silly girl."


	5. Chapter 5

Daisy's mind was on overdrive as she led Pyrrha's hovering, unconscious form through the torchlit corridors, her pallid face drifting at Daisy's transparent hip. She glanced down at Pyrrha roughly fourteen times a second, and each time she noticed something else that sent an unpleasant jolt through her chest; namely, the missing leg—how hadn't Daisy noticed it at once? Pyrrha's eyes were sunken, ringed with dark circles, and the burn scar . . . Daisy had never seen anything like it. Looking at it made her insides prickle with sympathy pain.

The wolf—Hati, she reminded herself—padded along just behind them. Daisy looked back, and, yes, he was still staring at her shimmering shape unnervingly, like he was undecided whether or not he should eat her.

"Don't worry," she said, swallowing her nerves as she turned back around. The double doors to the hospital wing were just ahead. "I'm going to make her better."

Hati uttered a growling bark that made Daisy jump. She took it to be aggressive encouragement.

They filed into the empty room, and Daisy gently tilted her wand, setting Pyrrha onto the nearest bed. Her face—the undamaged parts—nearly matched the color of the crisp white sheets. Daisy swung her wand around, sending the dark pulse of a Ghost-Repelling Charm through the air. She drew closer to the bed, and Hati sat up at the other side, ears up and eyes alert, eerie silver gaze never leaving her wand as she let the charm around her melt away, bleeding back into visibility.

Daisy didn't allow herself to linger on worry. She summoned a thin hospital gown and performed a Switching Spell, setting Pyrrha's clothes aside. Her skinny arms and leg bore a scant few bruises and cuts, but nothing more serious. Daisy probed the metal leg briefly, scanned the spellwork, finding nothing that required intervention, beyond the obvious. Regrowing an entire limb would take at least a month, depending on the circumstances. While Daisy could brew the necessary concoctions, she gathered from her whirlwind introduction to the situation that Pyrrha didn't have a month to convalesce, totally immobile.

Daisy shifted her attention to the torso. She raised her wand and performed a neat gesture, and the tip shone with violet light. Pyrrha's skin fell translucent under the light, like thin wax paper before a flame, and the gown faded entirely; Daisy's own insides squirmed as Pyrrha's were revealed, a hundred glistening shades of red and purple, twitching and pulsing and flowing to their own unique rhythms. Daisy watched the intestines undulate in a sort of repelled fascination before refocusing, carefully examining Pyrrha's vital organs and arteries for damage. She was so intent on spotting the smallest sign of internal bleeding that the heart went overlooked for several seconds too long.

"Black?" she cried, icy dread spiking her blood. Adrenaline kicked in as Daisy took in the damage. She'd never seen the like of it; Pyrrha's heart was marred by uneven patches of dark scar tissue, the remaining flesh a foreboding shade of pinkish-grey. It reminded Daisy of the time she'd assisted in the treatment of an elderly wizard with a debilitating fondness for nostryctum.

This was dark magic, quite clearly a curse, though she lamented that she didn't recognize it; it didn't exhibit the hemorrhaging of the Traumata Curse, nor the putrefaction of the Rotting Curse. Other spells with these effects she could recall, in her admittedly limited knowledge, would have resulted in death much earlier. Daisy's relative calm began to fray once more as helplessness sank in; this damage was both life-threatening and beyond her capabilites. What the hell was she going to do?

Daisy took a breath and hardened her resolve; she was going to keep Pyrrha alive, of course, no matter if she had to bring her straight to St. Mungo's, mad witch at her heels or no. But Pyrrha's heart still pumped, though with noticeable strain . . . or was that her imagination? She couldn't be sure.

With a nod to herself, Daisy set about doing all she could conceive of that may help Pyrrha's heart function until she woke. Pyrrha would know what the curse was, she thought, attempting several different countercurses with deft maneuvers. Pyrrha certainly hadn't been acting as if she'd had hours to live—although, Daisy reflected, Pyrrha had a habit of dismissing her troubles. Daisy would assume the worst, behave like a healer treating a critical-condition patient, not like a friend sick with distress.

Down Pyrrha's throat went several different potions summoned from Mr. Eshmun's office. One for pain, one for energy in lieu of a meal, one to strengthen and regulate the heartbeat, another to repair damaged organ tissue, yet another to regenerate new tissue to replace what had died. Daisy had her doubts the latter two would have any significant effect, but the smallest chance was plenty enough. She hesitated, then felt silly for it, finally pulling down the collar of Pyrrha's gown to check the skin over her heart for any telltale marks of one curse or another. There was no luck to be had. Pyrrha's necklace was gone, she noticed with pang of unease—her prized memento, the gift from her mother that never left her neck—what had happened to it?

Wiping sweat from her brow, Daisy ejected distraction from her mind as she stood back and assessed. She'd now done all she could for Pyrrha's injuries, except for the cursed burn. She wrung her hands as she took it in up close; the blackened circle of skin originating below the right temple, emanating out into shining red scar tissue shot through with wandering purple tendrils that curved around the cheek and forehead. The result of another curse Daisy didn't recognize. The sight of it made her ill to think of what it had done to Pyrrha.

Tentatively, Daisy raised her wand again, her mind viciously replaying Pyrrha's agonized reaction when she'd tried to interact with the curse earlier. She stood rigid, eventually deciding a moment of pain was worth ensuring the well-being of Pyrrha's brain. Hopefully she wouldn't feel a thing while she slept, thoroughly unconscious as she was. Daisy took a breath and cast the charm, directing the violet light at Pyrrha's head, arm tensed and ready to withdraw.

Pyrrha didn't shift. Daisy released the breath she'd held, relieved, and she crept closer. Apprehension built anew as she scanned the skull for fractures before willing the charm to reach further; the skull faded from view to reveal Pyrrha's brain, fleshy and pink and full of winding contours. Simultaneously repulsed and captivated, Daisy examined it from every angle, gawking at the gentle trickles of fluid and subtle pulsating of the brain matter. It appeared entirely healthy, to Daisy's comfort. If only it were so easy to see the curious thoughts the thing produced.

When she ended the spell, Daisy found herself leaning much too close to Pyrrha's face. At rest, she looked somehow more troubled than her waking self, brow furrowed, thin lips set in a tense line. Daisy straightened up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Pyrrha's cheek, and Pyrrha winced in her slumber as the scar was grazed, giving Daisy a twinge in her chest. The burn drew Daisy's eye again with that innate ghastly magnetism horrific sights possessed. It would never heal, Daisy knew.

Pyrrha would shrug it off, as was her way, but Daisy felt sure it would bother her at least a little. Such a mark would only make her even more intimidating, more ostensibly unapproachable. That much harder for her to interact with people. Sudden outrage surged through Daisy, and her hands shook as she groped blindly behind herself, eyes fixed on her friend's marred face; she dragged a chair over with a noisy scrape and fell backward in. She pointed her wand, and the sheets fluttered out from under Pyrrha and wrapped her snugly.

Morrigan, she'd said. Who was this woman, this witch that could send Pyrrha, of all people, fleeing for safety, thoroughly cursed and missing a bloody limb? Daisy held at least part of the answer inside a vial tucked into her inner robe pocket. She burned with the need to know more, but she simply couldn't leave Pyrrha unattended for an extended period, hurt as she was. Daisy sat back and twined her fingers.

Her thoughts turned to Ashlin. She likely hadn't a clue what was going on. That was something Daisy could do, something useful. Apart from the fact she deserved to know Pyrrha was hurt, she could be in danger, a potential hostage for the madwoman outside. Daisy was halfway to the door, Hati watching her intently, before she paused. This Morrigan was capable of anything, in her mind. An owl sent to Ashlin might be followed, and who knew if the charms around the Clay house would keep her at bay?

No, a Patronus was the smarter option. Daisy would tell Ashlin a quick overview, and to stay aware and cautious. Stay with a friend for a few days, if she possibly could. She would end the message with reassurance; she and Pyrrha would get this mess sorted out. Daisy nodded to herself as she composed the message in her head, then cast the charm with a flourish.

The silvery ghost of a wolverine streamed from Daisy's wand, but it didn't soar away through the door; it paused in the air, nose pointed up and turning this way and that. It floated back and forth looking hopelessly lost, then turned back to face her, meeting her bewildered expression. Unearthly pale eyes gave her what seemed a solemn look before dispersing into fleeting white mist.

Daisy stood dumbfounded. Pyrrha had taught her to cast the Patronus ages ago; she hadn't failed to in years. It had manifested just fine, so her happy memory remained effective. It was as if the spell couldn't find Ashlin. A block of ice slipped into Daisy's stomach; where could Ash possibly be? Of course, she realized, the answer was obvious. Pyrrha had already ensured her safety, hidden her away somewhere secure. That was the only explanation.

Daisy needed a distraction. She turned to watch Hati, who watched her right back, then turned his head to Pyrrha and barked once. Daisy jumped again as the startlingly loud noise rang through the room.

"I've . . . done all I can for now, I think," Daisy said, approaching the chair she had vacated before. She set it down next to the wolf and sat, tilting her head down at him curiously. "Do you actually understand me?"

Hati uttered an annoyed-sounding half bark.

"You could just be responding out of some funny instinct."

Hati growled.

"Okay, okay, stay calm," Daisy said, hairs standing up on her neck. "Er . . . alright, how about this; if you understand me, go take out your aggression on the third bed from the doors on the lefthand side."

Hati stared at her, and Daisy thought he looked thoroughly unimpressed. For a few seconds, he didn't move an inch, and Daisy thought that was that . . . but Hati stood, keeping his shining eyes locked on Daisy even as his body turned away, and he continued to stare as long as he could while he walked before turning away and padding languidly over to the third bed from the doors on the other side of the room.

Daisy watched in disbelief as Hati leapt gracefully onto the bed and turned around to resume his relentless stare. Slowly, deliberately, he sank his claws into the bedding, his silver eyes never leaving Daisy's as he methodically tore the mattress and sheets to shreds. The sounds of ripping and tearing fabric filled the silence as mattress fluff spilled onto the floor. The wolf demolished the bed bit by bit, slashing with all the passion of a coma patient, rending sheets to ribbons with protracted slashes from claws like honed scalpels. He stopped abruptly and leapt off the ruined cot, claws clicking against the floor, then paced back to Daisy.

She sat stiff with unease as Hati walked past her to take his place beside Pyrrha, emitting a soft bark as he finally broke eye contact. He settled his head between his front paws on the floor, eyes remaining open and alert.

". . . Alright," Daisy said shakily. "Smart and scary. You're quite the pair."

Silence settled over the room like a blanket, punctuated by Pyrrha's soft breathing while her body gently rose and fell. Hati's gaze flickered between her and Daisy, nose twitching restlessly. He observed with eyes like gleaming sickles as Daisy tentatively withdrew her wand, attempting an innocuous smile—many intelligent creatures could interpret human facial expressions. When the wolf did nothing more than maintain his sharp stare, Daisy aimed her wand around the walls, pointing at each burning torch in turn. The flickering flames were diminished, and the details of the room were lost in dimly lit obscurity.

Daisy settled into her seat, stowing her wand and wrapping her arms around herself. Minutes ticked by while worry after worry seized Daisy's ruminations, her wicked mind needling her with all manner of dreadful scenarios. She strove to shut out the noise, focusing intently on monitoring Pyrrha's condition. Even as the hours passed without incident her fears were not allayed. She fidgeted in the hard wooden chair, squeezing her fists in her robes to keep them apart.

Fatigue crept up on Daisy and pulled at her eyelids. The subdued glow from the torches put together with Pyrrha's quiet breaths in the otherwise silent room lent the atmosphere a cozy, soporific tranquility. After an uneventful while later, Daisy found herself resting her eyes, and not long after that her head lolled back, bumping against the firm back of the chair. She sat bolt upright with a jolt.

"Can't have that," she muttered. According to her watch, it was one in the morning, but the time didn't matter on reflection; she would remain awake until Pyrrha woke as well, hopefully possessed of the knowledge to heal herself. Daisy stood and stretched her stiff legs, turning to walk to the doors and slip out of the room; she would need caffeine for this, and felt it best not to startle the wild wolf with the sudden appearance of a house elf.

"Renny," she called softly into the empty corridor.

The elf appeared with a barely perceptible pop, greeting her with customary enthusiasm that made her slightly uncomfortable; it was distressing the way house elves took any kindness you offered, even be it as simple as a friendly word and a smile, and amplified it into something profound. They made compassion seem a rarity, and perhaps for them, it was, Daisy reflected sadly. She was far from the first to want to help the house elves without a clue as to how to go about it.

Daisy pushed the troubling thoughts aside as she made her polite requests. Renny vanished and reappeared in the space of a minute, and floating along with him was a steaming pot of coffee already mixed with cream, a mug, some toast, a bowl of water, and a huge platter laden with various meats, cooked and uncooked. If the elf found the last request odd he was too polite to show it, bidding Daisy farewell with a chipper wave.

Her acquisitions floated ahead of her at wandpoint back through the doors. She conjured herself a small table, guiding her coffee and toast to settle on it, and she directed the bowl and platter to place themselves in front of the wolf. Hati sat up and leaned back warily as they drifted to a stop at his front paws, though his caution was short-lived; with an obligatory suspicious glance at Daisy and a cursory sniff, he buried his snout into the platter, snapping up chunks of meat with much noisy smacking.

Daisy hid her smile with a sip of scalding coffee as she returned to her post, watching Hati devour his meal. He certainly ate with the vicious gusto of a wild animal. What on earth was Pyrrha doing with a wolf following her around?

Discontent welled in Daisy as she thought of how little she knew about her friend's life. It wasn't for lack of trying; she'd written and written, and been lucky to receive replies on occasion. Those letters were filled with apologies and evasions, and Pyrrha's conflicted mentality was practically screaming through like a howler; she wanted to remain friends, but she was holding herself back for some foolish reason. Daisy couldn't imagine what her friend was thinking, and it frustrated her to no end, but she didn't know what to do about it. She'd dropped by the house whenever she could, most often finding Ashlin alone, and sometimes no one at all.

Daisy's gaze traced Pyrrha's long outline under the sheets. She was thinner than last they met, painfully so, bony wrists and elbows jutting out under the tightly tucked blanket. Tears stung at Daisy's eyes as they were dragged past Pyrrha's hollow cheeks, called back to the awful scar. Pyrrha had done this, gotten herself into something terrible. Daisy decided then that she was done hoping, done waiting for Pyrrha to break away from herself. It had never been her way. Daisy would dive in and pull her out, stop her drowning, willing or not.

As much as she wanted to shake sense into Pyrrha, this Morrigan would have to be dealt with first. Daisy welcomed the flush of rage that returned as she considered Pyrrha's attacker. She had half a mind to leave the castle and educate her, and the other half knew how foolish that notion was. Daisy stood and paced, finished her mug, poured another. Hati's eyes tracked her movements from the floor. On her tenth pass by the bed she kept walking, coming to a stop at the tall windows on either side of the cot.

The sweeping grounds were bathed in night, not a hint of starlight from the overcast sky that concealed the heavens behind a deep grey shroud. Black gloom swallowed the paltry firelight from the castle's windows. The oppressive murk made luminous yellow eyes stand out like countless wands shining with death at their tips; Daisy's breath caught as she took them in, endless clusters along the edge of the forest as far as she could see, dotted between the trees and upon their branches. Innumerable sets of eyes of all different heights and sizes stared ahead in the same direction, still and patient as apex predators awaiting their perfect chance for blood.

A humanoid figure stood solitary in the center of the lawn, faintly touched by the castle's light. Its withered skull, wrapped in scabbed and cracked flesh, aimed empty eye sockets ahead at the castle wall, boring into the stone with the light glowing from within those hollow pits. A skeletal hand clutched a twisted length of wood in its yellow-boned fingers, the branch shivering in her grip. Morrigan's lolling grey tongue swayed to and fro.

Daisy was rooted to the spot, still as prey without an escape. Her heart drummed impossibly loud in the silence. All at once, as if she'd cracked a branch underfoot, a thousand unblinking eyes snapped up and captured her own.

Daisy tore herself from the window, coffee mug slipping from numb fingers to shatter on the stone floor. The sharp sound made Hati leap to a stand, but Daisy ignored him, stumbling backward to fall to the floor beside her chair. Adrenaline and fright shook her limbs as they coursed through like ice-cold water.

Morrigan was a monster; an inferius, or some other terrible shade of unlife. Dark arts were far from Daisy's premier field of expertise, but she knew inferi were mindless killing machines, decidedly incapable of the higher thought processes magic required. How could she possibly work magic? And what did those awful eyes in the forest belong to? Were there so many more like her?

Daisy endeavored to relax her frantic breathing, standing on shaky legs and stepping further back from the windows. She drew her wand and beckoned, and Pyrrha's bed floated peacefully over to join her in the middle of the room. A sweeping gesture saw the windows covered by thick black curtains, conjured from nothing and supported by nothing. Hati glanced at the windows before returning to Pyrrha's side, giving Daisy a look of guarded curiosity.

Daisy couldn't have cared less about the skittish wolf just then. Her mind was racing with emotion, fighting with indecision as she clenched her fingers around her wand until they ached. She considered Pyrrha yet again; she was still inexplicably serene in sleep, but for her troubled expression that hadn't cleared a bit. Her breathing was even and deep. Daisy peered through her skin again, shielding Pyrrha's eyes from the violet glow with her other hand. Her heart appeared just as sickly as it had hours ago, but no more; Daisy couldn't detect any hint of symptom progression in the heart's rate or blotchy coloring. She was stable, Daisy thought with no small amount of relief.

That settled things. Daisy crept over to Pyrrha's discarded belongings and rifled through her robes, fumbling a little in the semidarkness before pulling out the worn fabric pouch Pyrrha carried everywhere. Daisy held it up with consummate care; though she couldn't distinguish magics as clearly as Pyrrha could, the gentle tickling snaking from her fingers down her arm told her the bag bore much more potent enchantments than just an Undetectable Extension Charm.

Hati growled low in his chest at her, lips twitching.

"Oh, shut up," Daisy said without thinking. "She told you to trust me, remember?" she added with a nervous twinge, shooting Hati a furtive glance.

The wolf huffed and snapped his jaws together, then laid his head back down to rest between his paws. He continued to watch her with silver eyes shining dimly in reflected torchlight.

"Right . . ."

Daisy returned her attention to the pouch. Tentatively, she reached for the secured button. As her fingers neared the flap, the pouch quivered; she froze, feeling a vague sense of danger about the air. Daisy deliberated, halting her impulse to bring her hands together. Pyrrha almost certainly carried an invisibility cloak, and Daisy needed it now. She steeled herself and inched her hand further, fingers coming to rest against the wood button. Nebulous unease intensified into a premonition, a promise of imminent calamity choking the air with a metallic tang; Daisy dropped the bag and the awful feeling withdrew, leaving behind a palpable sense of narrow escape.

Daisy panted as the curse's crushing aura bled from her. Irritation joined her ebbing fear as she used her wand to fly the bag back onto Pyrrha's piled robes. Why did Pyrrha have to be so bloody paranoid?

It seemed there was nothing else for it but to go. "I'll be back in a bit," Daisy whispered, as much to Pyrrha as Hati. The wolf didn't acknowledge her beyond leveling a stare at her back as she left the room.

Daisy coated herself in the Disillusionment Charm as she passed through the doors and strode down the corridor, letting her body become an empty, wavering space. She threw in a charm on her shoes—another she'd learned from Pyrrha—muffling any would-be noise from her footsteps. In thinking ahead earlier, she'd realized the necessity of remaining out of sight of the Hogwarts ghosts. Portraits could be confined or blinded, and house elves could be obliviated, two qualities ghosts lacked. Any of them witnessing her up and about while her colleagues were missing in action would point suspicions firmly in her direction.

Daisy reached the staircases and began the climb to the seventh floor, idle chatter of portraits wafting over her. The knowledge that no one but her and the ghosts roamed the castle lent an odd feeling, an adventurous sort of loneliness, even being that she knew the school rather well. She skipped a trick step and continued her ascent, letting the familiar ambiance of Hogwarts soothe her frazzled nerves.

As Daisy impatiently awaited the return of a staircase that had flattened into a bridge on the sixth floor landing, voices drifted up from below. She darted into the adjacent corridor and ducked behind the nearest tapestry, heart beating a quick pace. She felt a bizarre pang of nostalgic excitement as the voices drew closer. Peeking out, she saw Nearly-Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron drift up from the floor where she'd stood moments ago.

"—out a trace? What are we supposed to make of this situation?" Nick's agitated voice rang clearly down the hall as they paused by the mouth of the corridor.

"There are traces," the Baron said, apathetic monotone a perfect contrast. "Peeves informed me of his encounter with a witch. She threatened harm to chase him away." He held up a transparent hand as Nick opened his mouth. "There are also two rooms charmed against ghosts; the hospital wing and the staffroom. It's safe to assume the professors are trapped in one, and the witch occupies the other."

"What could this lunatic possibly have to gain, here? Madness, I tell you!"

"Madness indeed," the Baron said, tone heavy with sarcasm. "Who could possibly find worth in the ancient texts and artifacts housed within these walls?"

"Yes—well—right, that makes sense, but what are we _doing_ about it all? Is there any sort of protocol for—?"

"In fact, there is. I was on my way to alert the Headmasters' portraits before you stopped me for this terribly stimulating conversation," the Baron deadpanned.

Nick's affronted response was lost to Daisy as alarm prickled across her scalp. The headmasters' portraits had frames elsewhere; they could alert the Ministry in an instant. She had to reach the office first.

Daisy shuffled along the wall to the other end of the tapestry, back pressed against cold stone to keep from rustling the cloth. She aimed her wand down the corridor and fired a spell; it soared down the hall and collided with a distant suit of armor with a resounding _bang,_ sending its pieces flying apart in a cacophony of clanging metal.

"What in blazes—?"

"Let's find out."

Daisy kept still as the pair glided down the corridor, and she slipped out from behind the tapestry when they passed. Up the stairs and down several corridors she sprinted, silent as a mouse, save for her soft panting. She came to a halt at the gargoyle and spoke the password between quick breaths. The guardian eyed her dubiously, but it leapt aside all the same, and she wasted no time bursting in. Daisy leapt up the rising spiral staircase two steps at a time and barged through the familiar oak door, shutting it behind her with a sigh.

With a wave of her wand and a pulse of darkness, the room and her future were as secure as she could make them. Daisy felt guilt squirm in her, that she could worry about Azkaban with everything going on. She shook herself mentally; Pyrrha needed her. She had to hurry.

The candlelit office looked much as it had the last time she'd been here, and she didn't take a moment to eye the creepy decor; she strode right past the stuffed manticore that followed her with its eyes, lifting her wand to the former headmasters; she struck them all with a spell, startling a few from their slumber as they were confined to their portraits indefinitely. Daisy turned her aim to the stone plinth upon which the Hogwarts pensieve rested. It rose gently in the air, away from beside the claw-footed desk, and it accompanied her back out the door, to the distress of the headmasters.

"Beg pardon—who goes there?"

"Just what do you think you're doing, prowler?"

"You cannot simply walk—"

Daisy shut the door with a flick over her shoulder before tapping the pensieve. Transparency dripped down its length and coated it, making the task of guiding it down the tight stairwell tricky, but she managed, emerging from behind the gargoyle that leapt dutifully aside once again.

Awaiting her were a disgruntled Nick and a narrow-eyed Baron. From such a short distance, the wavering effect on her and the pensieve were clear enough for them to spot in the half-light of the torchlit hall.

"Just who are you, and what the devil are you doing?" Nick demanded, puffed up with indignation. "You won't get away with this, you know, the Ministry—"

Daisy ignored them, stepping silently past and into the hall. They weren't her concern; all that mattered was they didn't recognize her.

They didn't let up, flying along after her as she scurried down the first flight of stairs she could reach. They called after her with shouted threats and reprimands echoing in the spacious chamber. Daisy half-ran along a corridor, maneuvering the pensieve around a suit of armor pushed into her path by a cackling Peeves. The portraits, upon grasping the situation, chimed in with their own shouted admonishments. They condemned her for the attack on the staff with much vitriol, more and more ghosts swirling around her as they overheard the commotion. Despite that they could do nothing to her, Daisy's heart hammered with stress, and a bit of shame. It was all necessary, she reminded herself as she hurried down another flight of steps.

Midway down, a ghost with skin lesions and a snarl marring his face swooped through Daisy, and it was like plunging into a frozen lake. She stumbled, catching the railing, and the other ghosts exclaimed in triumph before following suit; they soared through her one by one, each passing a blast of pure frigid torment, every attack progressively worse than the last. Numb eyes blurred with tears, Daisy barely managed to guide the stone plinth to land safely on the second floor landing.

The spirits crowded her, surrounded her in a frozen sea of dead faces twisted in outrage, and the hostile clamor barely registered over what she felt as they pressed into her; pure, deathly absence of warmth, of sensation, of life. Involuntary shivers and twitches shook her frame.

Daisy's vision flickered—she sank to the steps, covering her head in vain with unfeeling arms. It was all the more terrifying in the absence of sight, adrift in a gelid void where the only sounds were merciless indictments echoing in her skull. Desperately, she raised her wand and twirled it overhead with dead fingers. _"Morsobis!"_ she said, keeping her pronunciation steady with every ounce of control she still possessed.

At a discordant chorus of outcries the deathlike chill fled her, and dull warmth bled in from outside. The shouts fell distant in all directions, as if they'd been yanked away by the afterlife itself, dragged off to where they belonged.

Daisy opened her eyes. The chamber was empty, silent as a tomb. The portraits eyed her warily. There wasn't a spirit to be found; they'd fled before the swaying absence of light radiating from the tip of her raised wand.

Unsteady legs bore Daisy down the rest of the stairs, around a corner, and through the final corridor, floating the pensieve ahead of her. Her freezing body tingled with the aftermath of the ghosts' assault, as if her blood had been exsanguinated and sluggishly reintroduced. The tip of her wand trembled as it continued to emit blackness all the way up until she guided the pensieve through the hospital wing doors. She released both spells at once and collapsed into her chair beside Pyrrha, barely stifling a sob as she faded back into visibility.

Daisy examined her friend without taking it in, struggling to stuff down the anguish that threatened to smother her. The ghosts were only trying to protect the staff—her included—but that did little assuage the lingering shock buzzing inside. She twisted her fingers together, wringing them until they hurt, and she parted her hands with a wince at the flesh rubbed raw. She sat on her hands and lowered her head, asserting her control over her unsteady breathing with negligible success.

Something pressed down on her knee. Daisy's head snapped up, coming eye-to-eye with Hati, who had a heavy paw placed atop her leg. The wolf blinked at her, silver gaze forgoing suspicion in favor of calm assurance. Daisy blinked right back, initial alarm fading into affection as she realized the wolf was comforting her.

"T-thanks," she said, wiping her eyes and patting his paw. "I had a rough go of it, but I'm alright."

Hati yipped and withdrew, turning his head back to glance pointedly at Pyrrha. He certainly had a one-track mind.

After a moment, Daisy approached the bed and scrutinized every inch of Pyrrha for the third time. She could find no evidence of progressing symptoms or a decline in vital activity. Pyrrha still slept deeply, if not soundly; her face was still taut with stress, mouth set as rigidly as her tensed limbs. Daisy wished she could give Pyrrha something for peaceful sleep, but the sooner she woke, the better.

The time was half past one, by her wristwatch. Time also to enjoy the fruits of her labor, though enjoy was most definitely the wrong word; whatever Pyrrha's memories of Morrigan held, they were far from pleasant.

Daisy crouched down before the wolf and met his eye with a solemn look. "I'm going in there," she said, pointing to the pensieve. "I don't know how long I'll be gone, but this has a good chance to help Pyrrha. I might learn what curses she was hit with." The words sent a terrible thrill through her even now. _Pyrrha's been cursed._ "If anything changes—she wakes, has trouble breathing, makes any sort of move or noise—you knock this over." Daisy pointed to the stone plinth the pensieve rested on. "It'll spill me right out in a snap." Daisy wasn't entirely certain of that, but it seemed logical. Hopefully the memory wasn't too lengthy.

Hati yipped his understanding, sitting dutifully beside Pyrrha as Daisy turned away and rounded the engraved stone bowl, tracing the intricate runes carved across. The pale and swirling silver-white light of countless memories washed over her as she unstoppered the vial and tipped its contents into the basin. She took a quick breath as dreadful anticipation flooded her, and she prodded the memory with her finger, a ticklish and smooth feeling. Her body lurched forward as she was drawn in implacably by the hand.

* * *

In an odd moment of clarity, Daisy realized why Pyrrha wasn't fond of utilizing pensieves. The experience of freefalling through space was scary enough for Daisy without any sort of phobia to speak about. There was no accompanying rush of air whipping at her face or howling in her ears, just a rapid descent without momentum, as if she hung suspended in the air as the world flew up to meet her. As abruptly as she was yanked in, her feet touched solid ground, no more jarring than missing a step on the stairs. She peered around as the scene swirled into shape in a blur of colors.

Pyrrha formed beside her, stone-faced and straight-backed, wand held at her side. They stood on a stone walkway made of interlocked hexagonal pillars, each the width of three people standing shoulder to shoulder. The bridge itself could have seen a couple of giants walk the length abreast comfortably, Daisy thought. The endless sea crashed and churned on either side of them a worrying distance below, and the grey sky weeped a light drizzle that never seemed to find the bridge or Pyrrha herself.

Daisy gasped as the island before them solidified into view. A jagged mass of rock sprouted from the water, big around as a professional quidditch pitch, and it stemmed up unnaturally from the ocean at a uniform width before tapering into a massive spire, like a titanic spear thrust through the earth. Impaled upon the tip of the towering spike were the colossal white bones of a whale, skewered through one side of the ribcage and out the other. The immense jaw gaped open in an eternal moan.

At a height with the bridge the island jutted out towards them, a crude platform of stone broad enough for several Ironbellies to roost on, were it not lined at each side with uncountable spikes the size of small trees sprouting up in all directions, themselves with spines upon spines bursting out like oversized thorn bushes. The entire expanse was barren, not a single blade of grass nor even a patch of dirt to be found. It was as if a mountain had had its features ineptly whittled away, leaving a rough and serrated skeleton behind.

A fair distance straight across from where they stood, down along the vast path flanked by myriad spikes, the dark mouth of a cave yawned open like the maw of a monstrous entity, baring notched stone teeth in a tremendous overbite. The weak light from the overcast sky did nothing to chase away the blackness in its throat.

Overall, it looked like the sort of inhospitable environment an insane dark witch would appreciate. Yet more questions without answers buzzed in Daisy's head, but she tamped them down in favor of studying Pyrrha, whose dark eyes were roving across the platform that began at the bridge's end a few steps forward. She raised her wand and conducted a series of precise gestures, and Daisy imagined she heard the clamor of the distant waves fade further into the background, as if the world itself were listening in. The air over the platform seemed to twitch sporadically, random intervals of split-second distortion abating quickly as they appeared.

Eventually, Pyrrha lowered her wand, a thoughtful frown on her face. She cast out at the platform, and a billowing silver spell like an oily cloud flooded out across the stone. The spell seemed to boil as it turned a shocking shade of pink and emitted a piercing screech, like metal rasping against metal. The cloud shifted, turning a muted grey, then disappeared into the stone as if the ground had inhaled it.

Daisy looked on in perturbed fascination as Pyrrha continued to probe the bedrock with deliberate motions. Beyond the obvious notion that Pyrrha was identifying and dismantling defenses, Daisy had little idea of what she was actually doing. There had been few opportunities for her to watch Pyrrha display her skill, and it was a little odd to see, even though her friend's brilliance had never been in doubt. Daisy felt a pang of melancholy at the underlining of their differences. If she'd been smarter, more talented, more driven to learn, would Pyrrha still have shut her out as she had?

Daisy watched intently as Pyrrha conjured a pig, and after a hesitant glance ahead, Pyrrha directed it forward. The swine trotted ahead mindlessly, grunting under its breath as its hooves touched the platform without incident. A few feet in, the animal lurched to a stop, a confused oink escaping its throat—it was hoof-deep in the stone, sinking deeper every moment. The pig struggled with increasing urgency as it melted further down, finally squealing out in alarm as the bedrock abruptly swallowed it.

Daisy felt a twinge of sadness for the animal, conjured or not, but Pyrrha merely made a small noise of exasperation. She cast again, a spell that made the air over the platform fuzzy, like an agitated swarm of near-invisible insects. The spell descended to the stone accompanied by a series of drawn-out chirps. The noise cut out as another gesture shifted the spell into something resembling a shattered mirror, myriad shards creating a dizzying series of flickers as they rained down upon the bedrock, and rather than sinking, they appeared to spill across the ground like molten glass. The stone shimmered and flared a brilliant white before fading back into the same rocky terrain.

It was apparently a favorable outcome, as Pyrrha gave a satisfied nod. She created another pig; it scampered ahead without a care, running circles around the arena on stubby legs, hooves clopping freely against the rock. Pyrrha vanished it with a flick and let out a quiet breath. Daisy's stomach lurched as Pyrrha stepped onto the platform.

Nothing happened. Daisy trailed along behind as Pyrrha kept walking, measured steps at first, gradually speeding up into a brisk stride. The clicking of her boots against the rock resonated oddly in the silence. Daisy felt anxiety building as they traversed the path flanked by many-edged masses of spikes, and the gaping entrance to the cave grew ever larger. The clouded sky enveloped them, lending a claustrophobic feeling when Daisy looked up.

The tip of Pyrrha's boot caught against a protrusion in the uneven bedrock. She teetered a moment, but was too slow to catch herself, and she fell to her hands and knees on the stone.

"Are you—?" Daisy cut herself off, immersed in the memory for a second.

Pyrrha's stoic expression cracked, displaying simmering anger that took Daisy aback. Pyrrha shook her head sharply, whipping loose locks of hair around her face; she stood and stared at the cavern ahead, fingers tight around her wand, and then she turned halfway around, peering back at the bridge. She remained still, and Daisy, having stepped around to face her, could practically see gears turning in her head.

A dull crack split the air, and the sound was followed by dozens more like it. All around, the many-pointed masses of stone were changing, rearranging themselves into lofty bipedal shapes, simplistic humanoid forms thick with jutting edges. Wisps of rock dust rolled off them as they scraped against themselves in their formation, and they stood tall on sharp limbs, arms like ridged stone blades held ready with violent intent.

Alarm coursed through Daisy as the beings advanced from all sides, pointed legs producing heavy clicks against the ground. Pyrrha, the madwoman, looked around far too calmly, an almost intrigued look in her eyes. She flicked her wand at the nearest monster; a spinning blue spell shot out and splashed harmlessly against the thing's chest. Pyrrha made an interested noise in her throat, as if reading something mildly surprising in the Prophet. She cast again at the same monster, which had nearly halved the distance with its unnervingly long legs; a violently flickering purple curse howled as it punched through the creation's abdomen, blasting through its lagging brethren in a similar manner. They all loped onward, oblivious to the damage.

Pyrrha uttered a little laugh as the pointy-headed monsters bore down on her from all sides, not twenty feet away. Daisy's panic mounted, and even though she knew Pyrrha came out of this alive, she couldn't believe her friend's nonchalance. Was this the sort of thing she was usually doing when she was away? Daisy watched in disbelief as Pyrrha continued to cast at her chosen test subject, nothing immediately apparent occurring.

Pyrrha finally broke off her observations as the creatures approached within their arms' length. She performed a complicated whirl ending with a sharp upward flick; the surrounding space rippled like the air over a bonfire, and the spindly monsters left the ground; they flailed as they plummeted up into the sky as if gravity had had a change of heart. Daisy stared up in wonder as they shrank smaller and smaller, finally disappearing within the swollen clouds.

Only five stragglers remained. Pyrrha struck the two nearest with jets of bright green light, destroying them in brilliant bursts of emerald flames.

She spun around and raised her wand at the final three; they were caught in a broad beam of pale golden light, and their movements grew sluggish, like flies trapped in amber. A low hum filled the air as they dragged themselves across the ground, stabbing and scraping at the stone under them, fighting for feet and inches as if beset by raging headwinds. They ground to a slow halt, and their angular forms began to vibrate; the hum reached a fever pitch, and the monsters broke apart with a gritty crackle of stone. They crumbled to dust in the air, and they were lost to the breeze as Pyrrha ended the spell.

Daisy stood stunned in the aftermath. Pyrrha looked around, casting an unknown spell for good measure, and she resumed the walk to the cave as though nothing had happened. Daisy cast off her disbelief and hurried up to match her stride.

The stone conjurations defeated, Daisy could see the distant horizon on either side of them now. To the west, the sun peeked under the dull grey veil across the sky. It spilled its afternoon rays over the azure waves, setting the far-off sea afire with warm colors that reflected onto the underbellies of the low clouds hanging above, turning them a whimsical shade of pink. Pyrrha's memory conveyed the tang of sea salt in the air, and Daisy could almost feel the breeze that held promise for more as it tousled Pyrrha's hair.

Pyrrha's demeanor grew more and more tense as they neared the mouth of the cave, lips drawn into a thin line. That she was nervous made Daisy terribly anxious in turn, and she stuck close to her friend subconsciously as they came to a halt a distance away from the looming entrance. Daisy stared up at the sun-bleached remains of the whale impaled over their heads, wondering how in the world it had ended up there. The poor thing must have suffered terribly, she thought.

Daisy dropped her gaze to the cave before them, a fathomless space so unnaturally black it looked like a solid wall. She knew it must be Morrigan waiting in there. Daisy's hands shook as she realized what was about to happen; Pyrrha was going to lose. She was going to be cursed. Daisy wished ardently that she could step into the past for real, warn her friend away from this perilous course, but all she could do was stand here and watch events unfold. No, that wasn't all, she corrected herself; she could and would help Pyrrha in the here and now. Together, they could set things right. They would.

Gleaming yellow eyes pierced the cave's gloom.


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm here to set you free."

Daisy started at Pyrrha's declaration, turning to her friend in disbelief. "Are you bloody insane?" she asked the memory. "If she's trapped, that's how she needs to stay!"

Pyrrha ignored her, of course. She stepped closer to the cave, to the malevolent eyes shining just beyond the black threshold. "I can find a way to release you, help you pass on. I expect you're more than weary of this life." Pyrrha paused, as if waiting for the homicidal maniac to respond.

All Daisy could think was how utterly confused she was. Why did this have to happen at all? Sure, the witch was trapped for eternity, apparently unable to die, but . . . Daisy grimaced as she found herself a tad sympathetic. How could she feel badly for a monster that had wounded her friend so grievously?

Pyrrha seemed as resolved as Daisy was conflicted. She returned the witch's relentless stare with equal intensity, the only sound the soft whistle of the sea breeze. When Morrigan remained eerily silent, Pyrrha said, "With or without your cooperation, I intend to kill you."

With that, Pyrrha drew her wand and began casting on the cave, elegant gestures and complex maneuvers flowing smoothly from one spell to the next. She was dismantling the charms keeping the witch inside, Daisy realized with dread. She stood by helplessly as Pyrrha jabbed her wand out, sending a plume of fiery orange sparks racing in all directions across an invisible surface; they left glowing cracks in their wake that burned with light before the whole thing shattered, a quick series of snaps echoing down the cavern.

Pyrrha kept at it, pulling away the defenses steadily, one by one. Several odd and sometimes ominous noises accompanied the occasional flash or spark of light. Daisy twined her hands tightly, wishing she could stop watching this unfolding disaster, or at least skip the dreadful waiting. As she thought it, Pyrrha made one final flourish, pulling away the unnatural blackness from the cave mouth like a massive curtain. The thick shadows melted into nothing in the air.

Morrigan stood hunched just inside, dreary evening light from the clouds revealing her in all her grotesque desiccation. She looked as well-rotted as a corpse could be without falling to pieces, discolored flesh and bones bared to the pale day. Her slumped posture was oddly vulnerable, guarded, far from the terrorizing fiend that had blighted the Hogwarts grounds. Daisy's eyes lingered unwillingly on her pendulous, slimy tongue, and it swayed limply from her torn throat as she staggered forward.

The creature lurched to a stop before Pyrrha, looking up into her eyes with that burning yellow gaze. Daisy prickled with dread to see her so close to Pyrrha. The air was thick with anticipation, as though there were an entire breathless crowd in attendance along with Daisy, all waiting on tenterhooks for what came next. She held her hands tightly clasped as they stood there silently, eyes locked in quiet conflict.

Pyrrha broke eye contact, blinking rapidly. "Waste of your time," she said, stepping around behind the witch. "Remain still. It'll be over soon."

Her wand traced swift patterns in the air, aim directed at the witch's decayed back. Morrigan's form seemed to shiver without moving, other flickering likenesses superimposed for an instant before vanishing, replaced by others in the next, each in slightly different positions. Pyrrha eyed the effect with an unreadable expression before flicking at the witch; a small white light flew into Morrigan's head, to no visible effect. Pyrrha frowned and cast again, with the same result.

Morrigan's flesh made a wet sound as she turned sharply on her heel, her incandescent stare capturing Pyrrha's eyes yet again. Daisy's heart thumped as she watched Pyrrha's startled expression shift to dazed confusion. Seconds crawled as the contest resumed.

Pyrrha shook her head after a dreadful moment, face twisting into anger. "Enough of that," she said coldly, twirling her wand; stone shackles rose from the bedrock and clamped around Morrigan's wrists and ankles. At another flick they pulled taut and sank, and the witch was yanked face-first to the ground, landing with a disgusting squelch.

The witch heaved a rattling moan as Pyrrha stepped carefully over her, turning to face Morrigan's back once again. Pyrrha tapped her wand against her fingertips, eyes unfocused and wandering as she stood deep in thought; at length she glanced down and gestured hopefully. A thin stream of golden fire spouted from her wand and washed against the witch's back with a dull roar. Rich light danced over the cave walls and chased away the shadows until Pyrrha lowered her wand, snuffing out the flames with a _whump._

Where the witch's torso had been, there it remained, utterly unscathed. Pyrrha was undeterred; she began casting anew, a rapid series of motions Daisy couldn't hope to follow. Faint humming faded in and out. Eventually, Morrigan's body began to glow dimly from within, the odd light growing more intense as Pyrrha continued to cast. Brighter and brighter it shined, until at last Daisy had to turn her head, blinking away the blotchy colors imposed on her vision. All at once the light flared more radiant than ever, stabbing between Daisy's fingers at her closed eyes before winking out with a sharp crack.

Daisy couldn't see for another minute, but it seemed Pyrrha had protected herself somehow; she made an irked noise in her throat at the spell's apparent lack of results. A steady succession of strange noises resounded throughout the cave; high pitched whines, tremulous buzzing and burbling echoes, and once, something like a far-off shriek. By the time Daisy's vision righted itself, Pyrrha was on her sixth spell, in Daisy's estimation.

The transparent spell rippled out gently from the tip of Pyrrha's outstretched wand, faintly tinged with purple. As the mellow waves rolled along the witch's body, they made a deep, resonant sound in steady intervals, like the somnolent breathing of some hulking beast slumbering just out of sight. Daisy gave an involuntary shiver. How many ways did Pyrrha know to destroy something?

Pyrrha maintained her efforts, lips thinning as the spell failed to do whatever it was meant for. Morrigan's head turned sharply to the side with a dry crackle of bones, and it kept turning; the witch's head twisted round with a revolting crunch to face fully backward on her body, and her shining gaze fixed Pyrrha in place, the spell left to fade away, forgotten.

Daisy could only watch with rising horror as Pyrrha stood transfixed, her initial surprised expression set static, and Daisy willed her friend to fight, damn the futility. Abruptly, Pyrrha blinked and clutched at her head with her free hand, stepping back unsteadily. "No, that's—I can't do that." She sounded unsure of herself, and Daisy lamented with a wordless moan.

Morrigan's eyes flared brighter, and Pyrrha flinched, still looking too deeply into those haunted pits. "Yourself? . . . I don't—I don't know . . ." Pyrrha massaged her temple, her wand hanging limply in the other hand.

"Oh God . . ." Daisy twined her hands over and over, wearing them down with dread that continued to build. Pyrrha wasn't in control anymore; her resolve was faltering, slowly but surely. The witch was overpowering _Pyrrha._ What little optimism remained to Daisy dwindled with a shriveling feeling in her stomach. "Damn it, _damn_ it . . ."

The witch writhed in her restraints, pulled at her shackles, and Daisy watched the pathetic struggling with a wild hope that perhaps she wouldn't break free, perhaps it had all gone to plan after all. But Morrigan tugged, and her hands tore free from their arms with a slimy sound. The emaciated stumps of her wrists slid out from the shackles with ease, and the witch's feet were similarly ripped away. The wayward pieces scuttled and rolled across the stone, and the witch sat up and turned her body around, her unrelenting yellow stare rooting Pyrrha to the spot. The sundered appendages wove back together in their proper places with drawn-out sounds of crawling flesh.

Only Pyrrha's eyes moved, inexorably connected to Morrigan's own as the witch rose from the ground with a grotesque twist of her head. They stood there in a silent battle of wills, a battle Daisy was about to watch Pyrrha lose. It all begins here and now, Daisy thought, devastated.

Pyrrha shivered, and the hand that held her wand shook as she raised it haltingly, inch by inch, until it was leveled at Morrigan's chest. It wavered under Pyrrha's unsteady arm, trembling with effort, weakness, or fear, or perhaps all three. Her breathing was labored, just audible over the pattering rain. Her wand continued to rise until she slipped it into the chest pocket of her robes, her face still wearing her inner conflict.

"I . . . I think you're—yes . . . it makes sense." Pyrrha still clung to a shred of doubt, a spark of defiance, Daisy could see it in her eyes, but it wasn't enough anymore. Pyrrha's hand dipped into her robes and unbuttoned her bag, strained black eyes still snared in Morrigan's trap. Deliberately, Pyrrha drew out a length of twisted wood and held it tightly in both hands, finally shoving it out as if yanked forward.

Morrigan plucked it from her clenched hands with a tilt of her withered head, a mocking bow of gratitude. Daisy trembled with rage and terror as Pyrrha stood there in a daze, helpless before the witch, who uttered a throaty gurgle that might have been laughter.

In a momentous few seconds, several things happened at once; Pyrrha's bloodless face slackened with shock as she seemed to come to her senses; a maiden bolt of lightning blinded the world with a reverberating boom, heralding the incoming downpour; Morrigan thrust out her staff, a dark spell swirling at its head; Daisy cried out as Pyrrha blocked the curse in the nick of time, and the backlash sent her careening backward through the rain, crashing across the stone platform in a rolling heap.

Daisy sprinted across the bedrock, Morrigan's burbling groan spurring her to the limits of her speed. Pyrrha's lank form stirred, barely visible through sheets of rain, and Daisy reached her friend's side with a sliding halt as Pyrrha sat up. Her dazed expression quickly shifted, unrestrained fury burning in her eyes, and Daisy took an instinctive step back as Pyrrha stood, already soaked through. Daisy spun around and gasped at the sight before them.

Little yellow pinpricks drew inevitably closer through the escalating storm. Far above them, a behemoth sailed across the murky sky; liberated from the spire, the great white skeleton of the whale swam on the wind with indolent grace, looming like the sepulchral avatar of an impending apocalypse. The leviathan soared up and disappeared beyond the storm clouds, breaching into the heavens that rumbled with deific condemnation for mortal life.

Lightning shot from the smoky thunderheads, lashing out to rip the air like empyreal whips, deafening cracks drowning out the raindrops. Daisy blinked the searing lines from her eyes, intent on the sky that harbored the risen whale. The clouds birthed it with unfitting quiet, gliding from the smog with its massive skull aimed directly for Pyrrha; it grew to fill the air as it drew near with prolonged beats of its spinelike tail, until Daisy could hear goliath bones groaning together among the turmoil of the storm.

Pyrrha's arm entered her captivated vision, wand issuing a swirling light that stretched over them like the widening eye of a tornado; the whale's skull impacted it with a thunderous crash and skidded across to plough headlong into the bedrock, mammoth ribcage raking the stone in a scream of grinding bone. The whale hurtled over the platform's edge and soared out across the turbulent waters.

Morrigan's golden gaze snatched Daisy's attention, holding to her prey hungrily from on high, wasted frame outlined by lancing bolts of light that roiled the air. She raised her knotted staff.

All around was an encompassing shift in the rain; every drop in a far-reaching radius turned in the air, coalescing into a deluge that surged at Pyrrha from all sides; Daisy's heart stopped as Pyrrha was consumed in a swelling mass of water, a suffocating cocoon that turned to solid ice in the next instant.

The ice went up in a cloud of hissing mist and streamed away like a thermal spring, the upsurge of steam sharpening to form reaching arms of fog that dispersed into nothing before they could touch the witch. Morrigan gestured, and around Pyrrha curled a trembling spell, creeping and sinister; Pyrrha raised a shimmering dome as lightning assailed her, tearing down from above one after another to strike with a deafening clamor like massive hammer blows, arcing blinding lines down her barrier until she dispelled the curse.

Far out, the skeletal whale completed its wide turn, swinging back around to descend again. Pyrrha glanced at it as she redirected a tide of sickly wind blasting around her with a plague-laden malodor still vividly remembered. The whale soared for her as she nullified a curse and cast her arm out, a wave of light sweeping through limitless stone creatures risen from the rock, reducing them to dust.

Pyrrha carved a wound in the air that consumed a craning mass of shadows before whipping her wand around, an invisible spell pushing air and rain from its path as it flew with a corona of indistinct golden light. The spell struck the whale's pale skull mere yards away, stopping it dead in its course; an eerie gonglike sound rang out, and the whale's bones hung fixed in the air as they fell more and more translucent, waning into a ghostly imprint like the waking vestige of a nightmare before fading away into nothing.

Daisy tore her eyes from the spectacle when she heard Pyrrha cry out, screaming in turn as she watched her friend carried away in a flittering wave of black feathers. The crows bore Pyrrha up and over the churning ocean, jubilant cawing echoing off the water, and the driving rain enveloped them in a shivering shroud. Daisy ran to the edge of the platform, heart pounding out of her chest as she strained to trace them.

Lightning slashed the sky and clapped with an ear-shattering report, and there was another light, a distant flare of purple, and Daisy caught sight of them again; a wiry shape plunging from above, dived after by a murderous flock of yellow-eyed forms. Daisy's heart caught in her throat as Pyrrha vanished in the air, and the world melted away.

* * *

There was no time to let it sink in; the next memory formed almost immediately, as if the pensieve could sense Daisy's desire not to draw things out. More likely, she realized, it was due to effortless remembrance, for she stood in the familiar field outside the Clay household. The sky was a clear midnight blue, speckled with winking stars that shined brighter by the moment as the vigil of the sun came to its nightly conclusion, ducking behind the trees. The halfhearted glow from the house's curtained windows trickled into the yard, where Pyrrha lay sprawled in the grass.

She pushed herself upright after a moment, still breathing heavily. Her wand quivered in her grip as she traced it over the deep cuts carved across her arms. Daisy squinted as she noticed Pyrrha's face was blurred, too indistinct to be natural even in the half light. Pyrrha directed her wand at her face, and its tip likewise fogged over like hot breath on a mirror. Daisy drew closer and knelt next to her, peering into the blur, but she couldn't discern a single detail. Abruptly, the odd effect ended, leaving Pyrrha with a fully formed, distraught face.

Daisy waited while Pyrrha sat in the grass, staring at nothing as her mind worked. After a minute she nodded to herself and stood, mending tears and scouring the bloodstains from her forest green robes, setting them dry with a final wave and heading across the yard to the front door.

Harrowing dismay bled through Daisy's heart, seeped down her spine. That she still hadn't seen Pyrrha cursed made it clear what would happen; Morrigan would find them here, and by the looks of it, Pyrrha wouldn't see it coming. Daisy followed behind as Pyrrha approached the front door, squashing down the niggling nightmare scenario she had kept suppressed.

Both of them startled a moment when Pyrrha opened the door to admit a wall of noise through the crack. They stepped into the sitting room, immersed in the powerful guitars and pounding drums blaring through the wireless set on the coffee table, the furniture pushed to the side of the room. Ashlin stood in the middle of the floor as if it were a stage, singing along into her wand the anthemic lyrics of Daphne's _Firewhiskey Fever._

Pyrrha swung the door shut, and Ashlin spun around at the sound, breaking into a wide smile. "Hey!" she shouted, flicking her wand at the wireless. The volume sank into the background. "You're finally here—I bought ingredients for this weird recipe in Mum's old cookbook, I wanted your help for—" she cut off as she noticed Pyrrha's grave expression, her own following suit. "Something's happened?"

Pyrrha stepped forward and drew her sister into a tight embrace, surprising Ashlin and Daisy alike. She said nothing, only took a breath, as if gathering herself.

"What's wrong?" Ashlin said from her shoulder, face filled with worry.

"I'm so sorry, Ashlin," Pyrrha said quietly. "We have to leave."

"Leave? Leave what?"

"The continent."

Ashlin pulled away, wide and disbelieving eyes landing on Pyrrha. Upbeat rock music played softly over the silence. "This . . . has to do with Morgan?" she said.

Daisy followed as Pyrrha stepped around Ashlin to stand before the burning fireplace, staring at nothing past the pictures on the mantel. Guilt and shame clouded her expression. "I released her not long ago in attempt to destroy her, and . . ."

Fear trickled into Ashlin's countenance, color draining from her cheeks. "Y-you went after her _tonight?_ Are you alright? And you—you couldn't—she's out there somewhere? Free?"

"I'm fine. And yes," Pyrrha said with a sigh. "I expect she'll be sowing havoc across the countryside in a matter of hours, if that. She'll be looking for us. I'm taking you to the United States while I sort this out; you'll have to attend Ilvermorny in the interim."

"Hang on!" Ashlin said. "You can't just drop me into another country and bugger off—"

"I'll be there with you, of course, until your term starts. After that, I'll have to return to Europe, and . . . rectify my mistake."

"Oh, so you'll be there for a whole two weeks?" Ashlin said. "Isn't that grand! And what the hell are you going to do, anyway? You just said you couldn't beat her—let someone else handle it!"

"I underestimated her . . . or overestimated myself. But it won't happen again." Pyrrha turned back to fix Ashlin with a determined, reassuring look. "I can still fix this. I have to."

"No you bloody well don't!" Ashlin said loudly, stepping right up to Pyrrha. "Stop putting it on yourself—she's not your responsibility! I am!"

Pyrrha made to brush a soothing hand across her sister's head, but Ashlin swatted her away irritably. Pyrrha gave a penitent, solemn look. "You are, and that means she is, too. Morrigan is after our lives, by virtue of our ancestry; I'll never stop until I banish her ghost from our family's future." Pyrrha ran a hand across her face, massaging the bridge of her nose. "In any case, I've unleashed her on the world, now. I could never stand by and let her raze it."

Ashlin blew out a distressed breath, brushing a hand through her hair. "You're not the only sodding prodigy on earth, you know! Isn't there someone who can help? Even the Ministry—"

Pyrrha shook her head. "The Ministry would only waste precious time and lives; they're not equipped to deal with this—even I hardly am," Pyrrha admitted. "And . . . I've sought out help. I couldn't . . ." Pyrrha said slowly, ". . . couldn't quite find it."

A huff of exasperation escaped Daisy. Did Pyrrha always have to be so bloody vague and mysterious about herself, even now, with their lives at stake?

Ashlin's eyes shone with worry as she made to speak again, but Pyrrha interrupted. "We can discuss this more later," she said, casting a glance toward the curtained window. With a wave of her hand the drapes parted to reveal the spacious lawn, a bed of shadow at the bottom of a boundless astral sea. "Go and gather the essentials you want to bring with us; we need to leave soon. Within the next twenty minutes, to be safe."

Ashlin nodded anxiously and turned to leave the room, shoulders tense with stress. She paused in the hallway entrance and turned back abruptly. "What about Daisy? My friends?"

"I'm warning them now," Pyrrha said, already holding a handful of Floo powder. "After I've relocated you, I'll be back to put Daisy's place under a Fidelius Charm. I'll offer the same to your friends' families."

Ashlin nodded, satisfied, then looked confused. "Couldn't we do the same—the Fidelius?"

"No. I've told you, Morrigan is after our family above all the rest, and she won't stop until she's found us. I'm not taking any chances; no protection is impenetrable. But the Fidelius should be more than sufficient for the others to remain unnoticed."

Ashlin made a face, shifting uneasily. "Should be?"

"They'll be fine," Pyrrha said. "Trust me. I wouldn't simply leave them vulnerable."

Ashlin's shoulders relaxed a little. "Yeah, alright." She disappeared down the hall, and Daisy could hear her respond irritably to some indistinct sentiment from the portrait hanging there.

Daisy stood between Pyrrha and the front window, glancing nervously between them as Pyrrha immersed her head in emerald flames. After a minute, she withdrew from the fire with a troubled frown; she seemed to have forgotten Daisy was at Hogwarts, or perhaps she hadn't read the letter, Daisy thought with a pang of sadness.

Pyrrha sat back on her heels, drawing her wand and turning it over in her hand with unusual apprehension. She raised it deliberately, tracing the beginning of a Patronus Charm, Daisy guessed, before faltering at the last moment.

Daisy wondered at Pyrrha's reluctance, the almost nervous expression she bore. She hadn't received a Patronus from her friend in years, not even now, when there was all the reason to. Yet another question to grate against Daisy's mind like sandpaper, steadily wearing away her patience.

Pyrrha stowed her wand and declared her next destination, poking her head back into the fire to speak to Titania Gresser's family. Daisy could hear nothing of Pyrrha's end, with her head lost to the flames entirely.

Daisy took to peering out the window, watching the stellar sky with stifling dread settling in her chest, a solid weight that pressed upon her lungs. She hardly noted Pyrrha calling out the Espinosas' address next. Her heart fluttered unpleasantly as she scanned the yard, trying in vain to pierce the distant treeline, to pick out the first hint of sickly yellow light. The yard remained tranquil as ever, almost deceptively so, as if the trees held themselves still in service of keeping the secret of Morrigan's arrival.

At length Pyrrha rose from the floor, glancing at the wireless that softly emitted the opening chords of _Pretty When You Fly._ It muted at an absent flick of her finger, and she turned back to look again at the mantelpiece, eyes gliding over the moving photos. She beckoned, and the pictures slipped from their frames and followed her hand, floating into the pouch in her robes.

Feeling like a fist clenched her heart, Daisy wrung her hands, breaking her gaze from Pyrrha to check the window yet again. There wasn't even a hint of light between the trees. Yard and forest alike were still as death, and the faintest ghost of illumination from the stars outlined the pines in fuzzy shades of black. Daisy cast half a glance up at the sky as she turned away, then spun back round in a double-take. The night sky was clear no longer; Daisy could just make out scattered drifts of wispy little clouds she was certain weren't there before.

"Pyrrha!" Ashlin yelled from down the hall. "Is America much warmer than here? Colder?"

Daisy turned around in time to catch a rare sight: Pyrrha rolling her eyes. In less grave circumstances, the casual gesture so unsuited to Pyrrha's serious nature might have elicited a giggle from Daisy. As it was, her fearful thoughts lingered on the nascent clouds as she watched Pyrrha perch on the edge of an armchair and draw her wand, placing its tip against her throat.

When she spoke, her soft, low voice resonated throughout the house as if she were everywhere at once. "I told you not to bother with what's not essential. Don't waste time, Ash. We really must be getting on."

"How are clothes not essential?" Ashlin called out incredulously. "Are we going into deep cover among a cult of nudists, or something?"

Pyrrha gave an amused hum, and the sound echoed dreamlike off the walls. "I'll come back later to retrieve more of our things. Failing that, we can buy new clothes. Collect everything _irreplaceable_ and forget the rest, for now. You've got five minutes; what you don't have packed and ready at that point gets left behind."

Ashlin scoffed loudly enough to be heard across the house. "I'll bet anything you haven't been keeping time, there's no way it's been fifteen minutes already."

"Four minutes left, now."

"Alright, alright, I get it! Urgency!"

The house fell quiet once again, gentle crackle of flames in the hearth tapping at the cozy silence. Pyrrha stared into the fire with a pensive expression, eyes catching the warm light like smouldering coals. She hadn't yet glanced outside after the first glimpse; Daisy could tell she didn't believe they were in immediate danger. Daisy couldn't have conceived of it either—she didn't know exactly how far that island was from the house, but the Clay household wasn't near Ireland's northernmost coast; for Morrigan to find them here so quickly was unthinkable, even for Pyrrha.

Daisy turned back to the window, and her heart skipped a beat. The sky was a patchwork of broken cloud cover, disparate masses billowing up tall as well as wide, barely visible grey blobs against the negative contrast of outer space. They seemed to seep outward and seek each other as she watched, spreading like a pallid pestilence across deep black skin. Dim sparks of light flickered throughout the insides of the encroaching thunderheads.

Daisy's panic returned in full force, driving the air from her lungs and squeezing sweat from her pores. Her heart beat an erratic tattoo against her ribs as she looked helplessly between Pyrrha and the window behind her. She wanted desperately to scream a warning, and she wanted even more to leave the pensieve, to redouble her stringent denial of what she knew was about to unfold before her eyes. All she could do was nothing.

It was the light patter of rain that finally did it. Pyrrha sat there enraptured by the fire a few moments longer, deep in thought, frowning as if she knew in the back of her mind something was off, but she couldn't place it. Her eyes popped and she sat up ramrod straight, and a brief flash of white flickered through the room. Pyrrha leapt up with her wand in hand as the following rumble of thunder groaned in the distance.

"Ashlin!" Pyrrha shouted, voice so strained with fear she sounded like a different person entirely. Daisy hurried along behind as Pyrrha flew across the room to the hallway, gesturing with her wand as she went. "Ash, we need to go _now!"_

They met Ashlin carrying a broom and a trunk through her bedroom door, blue eyes wide with terror. "She's—?"

Pyrrha snatched Ashlin's wrist without another word and they stumbled as reality quivered a moment, a sharp crack splitting the air in the next instant; Pyrrha and Ashlin lay sprawled on the floor among scattered possessions, the trunk warped as if something had exploded inside it. Pyrrha shot to her feet, and Ashlin sat up, clutching at the bloody stump of her elbow.

"P-Pyrrha—my arm—"

Pyrrha gestured her wand at the splinched limb resting on the carpet; it flew into place and reattached with a bang and a puff of purple smoke. "Come—the fire!"

Pyrrha yanked Ashlin to her feet and they sprinted out the door, down the hall to the sitting room. The jar of Floo powder zipped from the mantel and shattered itself in the hearth at Pyrrha's motion, and they skidded to a stop before the fireplace. It was out.

Pyrrha cursed and began casting at it, wand a furious blur of movement. Ashlin flinched beside her as thunder boomed outside, and the rain began to come down with all the force of an unnatural tempest, the endless roar of the elements drowning out all else. Ashlin shifted nervously from foot to foot as Pyrrha worked, twisting her hands around her broom before propping it against the couch.

Daisy went back to the front windows, and far away she could see a flying plague of shining yellow lights. The crows were fast closing in, distant hoarse shrieks gradually amplifying with proximity. A lull in the cascading thunder allowed their cries to ring out clearly over the driving rain.

Pyrrha melted into Daisy's side as she rushed to the window to peer out; Daisy stepped back, watching Pyrrha's face drain of blood, feeling as if her own insides had sunk away as well. As they looked on, the flock grew in size and number, tiny black shapes darting up from the forest to join the murderous droves soaring closer and closer.

"I don't suppose you have a plan C?" Ashlin said, peeking around Pyrrha.

Pyrrha whirled around, wand held in a white-fingered grip. "Ash, take your broom and leave through the back door. Fly until you can apparate, get to Hogwarts through Hogsmeade—"

"No!" Ashlin seized Pyrrha's wrist as if she might run away. "Don't do that, don't act like you're not coming with me—are you mad?"

"She's too fast," Pyrrha said, grabbing Ashlin's hand with an imploring squeeze. "I'm going to slow her down, and there's no time to argue," she said over Ashlin's noise of protest. "I'll be along later, I promise—now go! Fly!"

"Like hell!" Ashlin said fiercely, letting go to draw her own wand. "I'm not leaving you to—"

She fell abruptly silent when Pyrrha aimed at her. Ashlin's face went from momentary confusion to placid acceptance, and she replaced her wand in her pocket with eerie calm.

"I'm sorry, Ash," Pyrrha said quietly.

At Pyrrha's urging, Ashlin spun on her heel and darted away to the back door through the kitchen, snatching up her broom on the way. Pyrrha and Daisy followed behind as the door slammed shut, and they watched through the back windows as Ashlin's auburn hair whipped in the air over the forest, fading behind the rain into a dark red point in the distant gloom in a matter of moments. Pyrrha breathed a sigh of relief before turning back.

Daisy could feel her heart shrinking away with Ashlin, tears flowing freely down her face. Ashlin had never reached Hogwarts. Daisy clung to one last shred of hope as she trailed behind Pyrrha out the front door, hope that Ash had hidden someplace else, but she knew the girl too well not to know what would happen next. Stepping out into the storm again to confront what awaited them was like entering the highest plane of misery.

The rainfall shied away from Pyrrha, twisting in the air at the last moment to splash the sodden grass. She stood at the center of the lawn like a grim statue, a sentinel awaiting the tide of black feathers and beaks surging toward her. Daisy drew back, far to the side of the yard, where she might best see the coming battle and identify the curses Pyrrha was struck with. Daisy's heart thumped so hard she thought it may stop.

As the crows closed in, the cacophony of noise was nearly unbearable; pounding rain drummed over throaty shrieks relentless in their ferocity, all punctuated by periodic deafening blasts of thunder. It was near impossible to see, with the dense blanket of murky clouds overlaying the sky and obscuring the stars. Infrequent flashes of lightning illuminated the yard, and Pyrrha's pale face stood out from the gloom with dark eyes burning in contrast to her cold countenance; when the flashes fled, she became a still silhouette in the weak light of the house's windows.

A swarm of glowing eyes filled the black sky, and they dove as one over the trees, screaming their thirst for blood. As the murder swooped down upon the lawn a brilliant purple light burst from where Pyrrha stood; it enveloped the birds, imposing dark winged shapes on the sky framed in violet, and the spell caught them dead in the air. They struggled and flapped as they were drawn inexorably together, arcane light contracting with them as the crows were forced into the spell's locus.

Caws of eagerness turned to dismay as the creatures were melded, coalescing into each other in a grotesque amalgam of rotting flesh. The curse's light collapsed in upon itself and dragged the screaming flock along to melt into their brethren, forming a helpless conglomeration of snapping beaks, scrabbling talons and beating wings. Only a few agonized croaks could be heard from the mass as the violet curse shined ever more brightly before burning out, leaving the crows to fall to earth in a unified, twitching heap.

A plume of fire erupted from Pyrrha's outstretched wand, sending the yard and forest into a wild dance of light and shadow. The fire enveloped the crows in a swirling vortex of heat, roaring as it consumed the air until Pyrrha let her wand fall and the flames fell low; the foul birds were aflame, but they wouldn't burn, and they writhed and wriggled in the blaze until they began to blur. The crows shifted behind an opaque veil until Morrigan rose from the earth, wreathed in fire that licked at her exposed flesh to no effect before guttering out.

There was no preamble; Pyrrha and Morrigan raised their instruments in the same moment, and curses saturated the air with dazzling sparks and flashes, foreboding sounds of magic created to destroy. Pyrrha stood firm with unerring poise, turning curses aside with no more than a twitch of her wand and returning the thoughts in kind; her spells cut the air to be dashed against Morrigan's strength, dissipating into nothing or simply landing with no result.

The witch was slower but impossibly skilled, casting complex and varied spells with no care for defense, and Pyrrha was sorely pressed to keep up with the onslaught of magic. Daisy marveled at the depths of her skill; for every attack there seemed to be a singular counteraction, and Pyrrha employed them all as if they'd been waiting on the tip of her wand from the start.

Morrigan seemed to tire of their contested stalemate first; she struck the ground with the butt of her twisted staff, and Pyrrha stumbled for the first time as the earth shook with tremors worthy of a giant stampede. Pyrrha stabbed her wand down, sending ripples through the ground and stilling the quakes, and Morrigan lifted her staff; the yard tossed like a wave, mud burying Pyrrha beneath in a rain of muck that flew apart just as quickly, turning to searing spouts of magma surging through the air to cool into stone under the witch's staff; myriad fragments of rock shot back at Pyrrha to bury themselves in the house's front door ripped from its hinges.

The door folded in half to become a gnashing mouth, stone teeth clacking together as it shot for the witch and burst into splinters at her gesture. Morrigan waved away a curse as she pulled at the heavens with her staff; a cloud peeled away and sank through the rain, crackling with energy. Pyrrha assailed it with a violent blast of wind shaking the sky, and her spell died out as she was yanked into the air with a yelp. Morrigan swung her staff around; Pyrrha hurtled into the midst of the storm cloud, which flared to life in a resounding series of electrical discharges like a cascade of explosions contained within the fog.

With a rush of air, the cloud burst apart in a brilliant flickering web of dissipating static; Pyrrha plunged down to earth amid the rainfall, landing steadily on thin air just above a widening chasm. She strode on nothing away from the pit, swiping down twisting serpents shaped from rain, reducing them to mist that came together over her to form an immense milky eye staring down with a beaming white pupil; pale light emblazed Morrigan, and her form flickered as if engulfed in invisible fire. The witch flinched away and howled through her rotted throat, and Pyrrha fell from the air as her spells died, the field swallowed by darkness again.

From where Pyrrha landed a brilliant star flared to life, casting the yard in rapidly shifting spectrums of the world's most beautiful colors; the star soared high, and Daisy found herself unable to look away, incapable of even a single blink as she followed the wondrous spell's progress over the yard. A nebulous sense of peace smothered her worries until the star exploded in a shower of sparks, and anguish came rushing back like ill water from a burst dam; she nearly gave herself whiplash turning back to the fight, where Pyrrha was fending off humanoid forms leaping from the mud all around her.

The mud creations came to life as quickly as Pyrrha could snuff them out, endless waves pushing up from the mire that the storm had made of the yard, galloping on misshapen legs with dripping arms outstretched. An oily black cloud billowed from Morrigan's staff; Pyrrha released the spell that had taken apart the latest creatures like a flurry of invisible claws, gesturing as the cloud seeped toward her; her wand seemed to absorb the spell, sucking it out of the air through the tip. Her next curse bore the same oily look, enveloping a flittering swarm of fist-sized insects and turning them to inky sludge splashing down.

Morrigan brandished her staff, and Daisy jumped as the forest came to life behind her; from every side the trees lurched forward and scuttled into the yard propelled by creeping roots, branches twisted into hands gnarled and grasping, trunks splitting in faceless mouths hanging open with grisly anticipation. Pyrrha wrapped Morrigan in stone and cast a stream of twinkling lights into the nearest animated trees; one became a sapling, another burst into azure light and vanished, a third was turned inside out, and Pyrrha's focus was broken by clutching hands of mud sprouting from beneath to seize her legs.

She was dragged to her knees before she vanished the creature with a tap; she staggered back up, and the trees crept ever closer as more mud dolls tore from the earth. She reduced those nearest to ash with a wave of light before falling back to the defensive, turning aside rain honed like daggers falling from all sides. Steadily, Pyrrha kept Morrigan's attacks at bay, and steadily she lost ground, every new wave of assailants a little closer, every successive curse deflected a little later. Daisy cried in silence at the look on Pyrrha's face, a grim mask of defeated acceptance, the solemn expression of one resigned to a final stand.

Morrigan's eyes gleamed as she leveled her staff, and a curse from above shattered her head in a shower of putrid gore. As her rotted skull began to reform, a redheaded shape swooped in, turning a cluster of mud animations to glass with a far-reaching spell. Daisy's heart plummeted into a bottomless hole as her dread was realized.

"Hey—up here, you rancid hag!" Ashlin called out over the storm, slinging another curse that was promptly batted aside.

Pyrrha's eyes were wide with panic, barely sparing time to hold back the legions of animations as she flung curses faster than Daisy thought possible, desperate to recapture Morrigan's attention. Ashlin swerved deftly overhead, weaving around flowing tentacles of rainwater lashing at her from above. She soared over Pyrrha and fired a jet of blue light at Morrigan's raised staff.

"I'll distract her! Take those monsters out!" Ashlin shouted, ducking a whipping tentacle.

"Ash—just fly—!" Pyrrha cut off as Ashlin darted back past the witch, hurling curses and insults as she dodged around in the air as if she were born on a broom.

Pyrrha performed a complicated gesture ending in a downward flourish; thick frost spread from where she stood, sweeping over the ground like a blight to sink deep into the earth; creeping trees were held fast by frozen roots, and mud creatures stilled mid-birth. Glittering icicles formed all around, growing by the second as the rain built upon them to create a pointed bed of ice across the yard.

"Yes!" Ashlin whooped, twisting around a rain tendril. "How's that—whoa!"

A shrieking flock of crows poured from the trees and shot for Ashlin like a hailstorm of bullets. She went into a sharp dive, edging around a coiling red curse Pyrrha managed to divert; Ashlin swept past Pyrrha, the birds hot on her trail, and Pyrrha yanked the many icicles from the ground to spear the crows precisely; they tumbled to earth in a pile of black feathers.

Ashlin rocketed back into the sky, swerving around an expanding scar in the air that Pyrrha wove shut, circling Morrigan to rain down curses. Pyrrha immersed the witch in violet fire without effect, breaking off to nullify a creeping white light aimed for Ashlin; Morrigan's eyes flared as she stared up at Ashlin, who made a choking noise as she stopped dead in the open, gaze fixed downward. A rain tendril slammed into her side, sending her sailing off the broom to crash into the mud between Pyrrha and Morrigan, gasping for the air knocked out of her.

They cast in the same instant; from Morrigan's staff flowed a tide of clear black water swirling with eyeless faces, each set in a terrorized rictus; Pyrrha summoned Ashlin, who slid over the frozen ground to halt abruptly as a half-frozen mud doll dived for her, clinging to her legs like a drowning man. Pyrrha vanished the creature and summoned again; the dark current lapped at Ashlin's ankle as she skidded across the frosted mud to Pyrrha's feet.

Pyrrha fell to her knees and cast over her sister with blinding speed born of desperation, the battle forgotten. Ashlin's breaths were shallow and rapid as she clutched Pyrrha's free hand, her body already changing: her skin shriveled and paled into translucence; her hair turned snow white before falling out in clumps; her wide blue eyes clouded over to a milky grey. Pyrrha kept casting with tears streaking down her face, and Ashlin whispered something between cracked lips before she died, skeletal hand still holding her sister's as she turned bruise-black and mummified until she crumbled to dust in Pyrrha's lap.

Daisy's heart broke, and Pyrrha's scream rang out to rend what little remained: raw and animalistic, so full of sorrow and hatred the air seemed to bleed with the pain of bearing it.

Amidst a blinding flare Pyrrha rose at the head of a radiant surge of cursed fire, an enormous dragon of flames blossoming from her wand to sweep over the swell of dark water and smother it with burning breath, spewing thunderbirds and cockatrices from its gaping maw to blaze over the ground in a living wave. The dragon's clangorous roar was the roar of a raging inferno as it broke itself upon Morrigan headfirst, a tremendous rush of air and fire wraiths erupting in all directions.

In seconds the yard was overtaken by arcane wildfire; chimeras, nundus and manticores scorched black scars across the lawn with loping strides and lunged into the surrounding forest to consume the pines, appetite for destruction insatiable. The clamor of the thundering sky was outmatched by the howling of cursed fire, rain evaporating high in the air with a constant hiss. Morrigan was lost to the flames that coruscated like the surface of the sun.

The curse ranged further, searing sphinxes and basilisks coursing back toward where Pyrrha stood watching the devastation with a blank stare, wand hanging at her side. A dragon reared from the burning sea, wings like hellish sails flaring as it poised itself for flight with darkly kindled eyes fixed on Pyrrha; she met the creature's flickering gaze and didn't stir as it launched from the ground with a guttural roar. Daisy's blood froze at the empty look on Pyrrha's face as death raced to meet her, trailing brilliant tongues of light.

Behind the dragon, Morrigan emerged from the chaos to soar into the air, her deathly gaze shining against the murk of night; Pyrrha's expression twisted into black loathing, and she turned the dragon aside at the last moment with a wide swipe of her wand, dashing it against the ground to erupt into a flock of searing harpies. Pyrrha turned and flicked her wrist as she raced away; she leapt, and Ashlin's broom darted under to catch her. As she struggled around a burning wyvern, Morrigan aimed a shivering yellow curse at her; it lashed through the air to strike her head as she angled the broom away; she cried out, flying past the house and over the forest, Morrigan bursting into a murder of crows on her tail.


	7. Chapter 7

Pyrrha bolted upright in a cold sweat, heaving gasps that seemed to snatch her from the brink of suffocation, the lingering nightmare imprinting Ashlin's foggy-eyed ghost into her lap for a heart-wrenching moment. The delusion fled her and took all feeling away with it, leaving only a cold husk with a singular purpose; she let her breathing steady as she filled her empty self with fantasies of revenge, probable and improbable.

Heat flared in her head, nearly subdued enough to be pleasant. _"Nice to see you're focused for once,"_ Ashlin said in her mind. _"We might put Morrigan down after all."_

The hospital wing was dimly lit by low-burning torches, the windows covered by thick black curtains glowing with dawn's pale light around the edges. The faint smell of coffee stirred in the quiet air. Pyrrha noted idly that her cot had been moved to the center of the room, thinking on it no more as something cold and wet nuzzled her hand.

Hati's nose tickled her knuckles as he sniffed at her, tail wagging only slightly, as if to downplay any excitement. He gave Pyrrha a lick across the hand and sat back, shining silver eyes fixed on her. Her thumping heart eased a little.

"Hello there," Pyrrha said, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Everything alright?"

Hati yipped in affirmative.

"Where's Daisy?"

Hati gave a startled yip as if he'd just remembered something important, and he paced over to the pensieve Pyrrha's bleary eyes had glossed over. As she watched, the receptacle flared a brilliant silvery-white, and Daisy emerged from the depths to fall to her knees on the stone floor, face blotchy and wet with tears.

 _"Now there's someone who knows how to mourn properly,"_ Ashlin said as Pyrrha threw off the sheets and slid down to kneel beside Daisy. _"Take notes, you bloodless wretch."_

Daisy threw herself around Pyrrha, stammering incoherently before bursting into fresh tears against Pyrrha's shoulder. Pyrrha held her and rubbed her back as she cried, the gesture nearly automatic after so much time sowing misery among the people she claimed to love. In the wake of her sister's death she felt only an aching absence where despair should be, like phantom pain from a missing limb. An insignificant part of her wished to vanish from existence and time, to disappear from present and past alike, wipe clean her mark on the world entirely.

The rest of her asserted she would never have that power, but there was another way. That was a goal very much attainable with Aradia's help, and help she would, voluntarily or not.

As Daisy bawled into Pyrrha's neck a wishful thought occurred to her; perhaps she couldn't lament because of what she knew. Her critical voice pointed out she hadn't known before, when her parents died; the only conclusion to be drawn that she was unfeeling vermin. A brief and bizarre desire to laugh rose in her as she thought how Ashlin had labeled her a lizard in jest, cold-blooded, unaware of how right she truly was. The scar burned as Daisy's sobs gradually died down into miserable little hiccups.

 _"Something's definitely odd here."_ Ashlin's voice was hard, pressing on Pyrrha's smouldering mind. _"Whose sister was I, again?"_

 _Be silent!_ Pyrrha thought. _Tiresome little—_

 _"Oh no, you don't talk to me like that,"_ Ashlin said, her voice accompanied by a flare of white-hot pain. _"Don't forget yourself, Pyrrha. You're like a toy, you see—my toy. Indulge me, or I break you."_

 _Along with yourself, as we've established._ Pyrrha rubbed her head surreptitiously behind Daisy's trembling back. _Not quite logical._

 _"Perhaps I'm feeling illogical today."_ Ashlin's voice had an unsettling undercurrent of mania, sending a chill down Pyrrha's neck even as her head throbbed with fire. _"There, that's more like it,"_ Ashlin said, tone evening a little. _"I trust my point is well taken."_

Pyrrha hissed an inaudible breath of relief as the burning ebbed away, and she continued to stroke Daisy's back in mechanical movements. Daisy was speaking, she realized, a stream of whispers full of raw emotion.

"—believe she came back—I mean, of course I can, she's always been so brave and—God—I could feel it in my gut what was going to happen, but . . . how did she . . . ?"

The dull knife in Pyrrha's chest twisted a little; was it her stunted feelings twitching deep beneath the surface, or was her heart in its death throes? "How did she resist the curse?" She finished the question quietly, falling still, her arms stiff around Daisy. "I taught her to."

How could she not, after Drang? One more way she'd ensured her sister's murder. Her skull burned as if struck by a barbed lash.

Daisy drew back and slid her hands to Pyrrha's shoulders, her expression a mix of sorrow and empathy as she tried to capture Pyrrha's gaze; Pyrrha stared past her as she let her own arms fall to her sides. "I don't know why I'm surprised," Daisy said. "But . . . you know that doesn't make it your fault, don't you?"

Anger and incredulity sparked in Pyrrha as her eyes snapped back to Daisy, her tone sharp. "What?"

Taken aback, Daisy recovered in a blink. "It was her choice to return; there wasn't anything more you could've done—you fought with all you had," she said. Her soulful brown eyes still glimmered. "I . . . I think she saved your—"

"Yes," Pyrrha bit out. She wanted to scream and tear gouges across herself. "Yes she did, and yes, it was her choice—a choice she shouldn't have had. There are countless things I could've done differently, and I know them all."

Pyrrha stood and went to search her possessions piled on a chair, wishing fervently for the conversation to be over. It wasn't bound anywhere she wished to go. She questioned the wisdom of her exhausted self in handing over the memory in place of recounting; if nothing else, it had impressed upon Daisy the gravity of the situation in a way no verbal description could.

"Pyrrha . . ." Daisy seemed to grasp for something eluding her until she forged ahead. "You mustn't blame yourself, you can't—she got there so quickly, no one could expect—"

"Stop it," Pyrrha snapped, stowing her wand in her robes as she whirled around. "You saw what happened, and you know I'm to blame. Don't try to absolve—"

"It was _Morrigan_ who—"

 _"Daisy!"_ The venom in Pyrrha's voice surprised them both. She took a moment to regain control, exhaling her vitriol in a long breath. "Drop this. Now."

Pyrrha turned and snatched up her bag, running her fingers along the fabric curiously before slipping it into her robes. It seemed Daisy had tried to open it. It didn't concern her; she trusted Daisy like no one else. Thankfully, she'd had the sense not to follow through with the attempt.

It took a few seconds to register when Daisy replied, "No."

Pyrrha turned back around to see Daisy on her feet with an expression impossible to read, eyes glinting in the subdued light. She continued with her hands coming together and wringing themselves. "I saw you . . ." She drew closer, her voice fragile as glass. "You were going to let it happen . . . let the fire take you."

There was no answer to give that would satisfy Daisy, and Pyrrha floundered, staring silently. She wasn't suicidal; she still had things to accomplish. She'd merely been in shock, lost sight of her purpose for one unfortunate moment.

The absence of a denial set Daisy's hands still, squeezing in a painful-looking death grip. She looked on the verge of tears once again. "Please, Pyrrha, you mustn't do anything like . . . you're my—I couldn't bear . . ." Her voice was thick as she trailed off, pressing her hands against her abdomen, as if over a wound. She looked at Pyrrha with a pleading expression meant for one with a foot over the edge of a long drop. "We can—I can help . . ."

Pyrrha placed her hands over Daisy's and gently parted them. "Listen closely," she said as their eyes met, injecting her voice with all the sincerity she could. "Worrying over me is a waste of your time. I don't intend to die; you act as if I would leave you and the rest to Morrigan. Do you think so little of me?"

"Of course not!" Daisy said sharply, blinking out glossy wetness. "I only meant after we've dealt with her—you know you're like to disappear again, someplace I can't contact you, and I just—that look on your face when the dragon—"

Pyrrha chose to ignore the 'we' for the moment. "As I've just said, I won't do any such thing." She squeezed Daisy's hands reassuringly. "My only intention is to purge Morrigan from the earth."

"Promise it," Daisy demanded as she squeezed back, her bright eyes searching Pyrrha's with disconcerting intensity, as if she thought to spot a lie forming in Pyrrha's brain.

Discomfort squirmed in Pyrrha's gut as she let their hands fall. She hoped Daisy wouldn't take to analyzing her every word and expression, probing for meaning in the meaningless. The depths of her care continued to baffle Pyrrha; what had she ever done to warrant it all?

"Yes, of course," Pyrrha said before the silence stretched too far. Hati made a throaty grumbling noise from behind her.

Daisy studied her for several more seconds before nodding cautiously. "Alright . . . good," she said, lip twitching in the shadow of a relieved smile. "Sounds like someone's hungry. Why don't I check you up one more time, and we can head to the Great Hall and grab breakfast." Left unsaid was the battery of questions certain to come along.

It came as no surprise Daisy had been monitoring her condition, but unease stirred in Pyrrha regardless; her heart had a glaring wound that wouldn't have gone unnoticed. Might Daisy have spotted other abnormalities?

Pyrrha's torso was already transparent under violet light, and Daisy nodded grimly at her heart as she held her wand out. "Look at this: a curse, and not from Morrigan, at least I don't think so. I only saw you hit by that—" she flicked her eyes up to Pyrrha's scar "—so I can't identify this one. I did my best to allay the effects, but it hasn't gotten any better. No worse, either, thankfully."

"Yes," Pyrrha murmured absently as she examined herself. She didn't have to feign mild surprise at how far along her heart had gone; she would need to stop relying on blood magics as much as she possibly could. Dread trickled into her as she contemplated the healing process, such as it was. She would have to wait until Daisy slept to remedy the situation.

"You recognize it?" Daisy asked hopefully.

"I do," Pyrrha said. "I can mend it later today. My leg, as well." She took pains to make it sound like an effortless exercise.

Daisy broke into a relieved smile. "Oh, thank God for that! I knew you'd know what to do." She glanced at the burn scar and gestured at it hesitantly. "And the other one? I checked your brain matter, it's all normal in the physical sense. Are there any residual effects? Pain or odd sensations, intrusive thoughts, auditory or visual hallucinations?"

Ashlin gave an uncharacteristic cackle. _"Try all of the above!"_

Pyrrha was brought up short at the question of revealing Ashlin. She hadn't even a moment to consider either way before Ashlin had her say.

 _"You'll tell her nothing, of course,"_ Ashlin said, holding a burning torch against Pyrrha's head in warning. _"Unless you want to lose her trust entirely, not to mention your suspect sanity."_

Pyrrha concealed a wince by turning away to pat Hati, who stared up to her with ears raised at attention. "No, nothing like that beyond lingering pain. I suspect the physical damage is the extent of it. I doubt I'll be able to reverse it, given the nature of such curses."

Hati panted softly as he turned his pale head between Pyrrha and the empty platter on the floor, a look of longing in his lupine eyes. Pyrrha hummed an acknowledgement and turned back to Daisy, who eyed her with a foreboding expression of sneaking suspicion.

At least she got right to the point. "So, how is it you can reverse the other curse so easily? And who cast it on you?"

Pyrrha sighed. "No one you know." It was true, in a roundabout way. "I recognize the curse; it has a counter. That's how. Why don't you tell me—?"

"What is it, then?" Daisy said, a challenge in her eyes.

"It's a Wilting Curse," Pyrrha said. "It causes vital organs to gradually waste away. The effects are exacerbated by inane questions, so I suggest we move on."

Daisy ignored the jab, refusing to be baited off track. "I'm not familiar with it, though it sounds very much like a Withering Curse, but that has no counter. So you just happened to take a similar-but-different spell that conveniently has a recourse? Something you can do in one afternoon, no less? I've never heard of such a deadly curse being so easily reversed."

Silence rang for a few seconds, and Ashlin snickered in Pyrrha's mind. Finally, all she could say was, "You have now."

Daisy bristled, crossing her arms tightly as if choking the life out of an imaginary Pyrrha. "I can't believe this—you're lying to me! Why don't you want me to know what it is?"

"Because I don't." They didn't have time for this back-and-forth; the day was wasting as they argued. "I'm not discussing this anymore." Pyrrha turned and strode to the nearest window as she drew her wand. Daisy's frustrated sigh turned to an alarmed exclamation as Pyrrha waved the window's curtain away, vanishing it.

A yellow-eyed corpse pressed against the glass, peering down into the hospital wing with sinister gleaming sockets. Morrigan held tight to her staff humming with power, her other rotted hand pressed to the window as her drooping tongue scraped the panes. Pyrrha's eyes darted to meet the witch's shining gaze against her will, but there was no compelling voice in her head ripe with a thousand years of malice, no icy cold fingers probing her spine.

Hati was barking, savage baying resounding harshly through the room. Pyrrha barely registered Daisy attempting to soothe the wolf as rage began to build inside her, consuming and boundless hatred for the witch before her who had so indifferently snuffed out the world's most brilliant light. Morrigan hung in the air and stared back, impassive, as if the conclusion to their tale was long since foregone: only a matter of time.

"You'll be waiting for the end far longer than you think," Pyrrha said, her body thrumming with repressed energy. Pleasant warmth bloomed across her scar. "Just as well you're accustomed to it."

A shock went through her at the contact, a hand in hers: Daisy. "Let's go, Pyrrha," she whispered.

With one last defiant howl from Hati, Pyrrha turned away and allowed herself to be led from the window. Numbly, she followed Daisy out of the room, the wolf's paws padding close behind.

* * *

The Great Hall stood empty and silent as they filed in, footsteps and clicking claws echoing in the voluminous space. The grand enchanted ceiling revealed the occluded sky, pearly grey clouds aglow with pale hues that filtered down to give the chamber a lethargic air. Pyrrha led the way past the house benches to arrive at the elevated staff table; Daisy couldn't sit across from her there. Daisy sent a dark spell flashing through the room, pushing a stray spirit through the far wall with a yelp.

"Have they given you any trouble?" Pyrrha nodded at where the ghost had disappeared.

Daisy's form melted into view as she shook her head, busying herself with pulling out a seat. "No, none at all."

Pyrrha took the headmaster's high-backed chair as Daisy claimed the place to her left. Hati sat between chairs at her other side, his stature plenty tall enough to scan the bare table expectantly.

An odd feeling swept through Pyrrha as she settled back and peered out over the deserted hall like the monarch of a ruined realm, presiding over a barren throne room reflecting back at her the absent sum of her triumphs. The castle had never felt so bereft of life. The stagnant quiet was disturbed only by Hati's steady panting, by Daisy fidgeting in her seat as she looked around the table uncertainly. Cold morning light suffused the stone walls and dark wood tables, the thousands of floating candles above hanging unlit. Pyrrha decided to leave them so; she found the bleak chamber mirrored her mood.

A somber minute passed in which nothing happened, though Pyrrha hardly noted it. Daisy's voice pulled her back to reality. "Er . . ." she said. "I s'pose I'll need to call for—"

Platters of assorted breakfast foodstuffs appeared from thin air to burden the length of the table, along with place settings for every staff seat. Daisy eyed the empty chairs guiltily as they began to fill their plates.

"I expect this means the elves are unaware of the staff's condition." Pyrrha floated several dishes of ham and bacon with a flick of her wrist, sending them to settle before Hati's eager jaws on the floor. The wolf dug in with vigor. "They don't clean the professors' private quarters?"

Daisy snorted as she smothered a bagel with cream. "No. We adults can clean up after ourselves, I should hope." Pyrrha watched her as her eyes rose to roam the room, melancholic, like she could forsee her future sorrows clearly as if they occupied the bare house benches. "I never thought I'd be sitting here," she said quietly, setting down her food. "I can hardly believe any of this is happening. Everything's become so . . . surreal."

 _"That's one word for it,"_ Ashlin chimed in.

"It has." Pyrrha returned her eyes to her plate and gestured at a few mandarin oranges that began peeling themselves. "Apart from your appointment, I mean," she continued. "Had I known you'd applied, I wouldn't have been shocked in the least. Congratulations."

"Thank you. I wasn't trying to keep secrets, I just . . . I . . ." Daisy made a small, miserable noise. Pyrrha twisted in her seat, and her heart followed suit; Daisy's shoulders trembled with repressed sobs. A curtain of golden hair concealed her face. "I w-wanted it to be a surprise. For both of you, but mostly for her . . ." She pressed her hands over her eyes. "I was so very excited to teach her, you know . . . to see her face when she saw me up here at the sorting feast . . ."

She broke into soft cries behind her hands. The cavity in Pyrrha's chest split ever wider as she turned away to glare at her lap, white-knuckled fingers gripping the armrests like they were her own throat. Searing, throbbing, the scar burned like coals compressed against her head. A terrible conflict raged in her; she didn't ever want to forget, and she wanted never to remember. Every outcome was suffering.

Her voice. "Hey." Pyrrha's head snapped to her right; Ashlin's ghost sat there with purple veins protruding from shriveled skin pale and thin as paper, milky white eyes desperate and pleading as they dried up and crumbled to dust, and her body withered into a wrinkled black husk with toothless mouth gaping, eyeless sockets gleaming.

"I'll never let you forget. Not for a moment. Look at me," she said, leaning close. Pyrrha was frozen, drowning, suffocating in the shining depths of gold. "Look at me. You did this to me. You did this. You did this. You did this."

The chant rang in Pyrrha's ears as it rang in her searing head. She couldn't claim the air, it had fled the room, fled from her; she breathed quickly, she breathed deeply, and it didn't matter. Ashlin's corpse extended an emaciated hand, withered fingers stretching for her scar.

Pyrrha shuddered and shut her eyes tight, goosebumps creeping over her flesh. _"Enough,"_ she said.

Silence. Pyrrha opened her eyes to an empty chair, and she jumped at Daisy's hand on hers; she whipped her head around to meet her friend's watery gaze, heart drumming.

"I'm sorry," Daisy said immediately. "I can hold it together, I swear, I'm just—"

"No," Pyrrha cut in, appalled. "Don't—don't apologize; I wasn't speak—" Pain branded her head with a warning, and she was unable to conceal a flinch. "I didn't—didn't mean that. Forgive me."

Daisy nodded and withdrew her arm. "Yeah, of course. I can hardly imagine what you're feeling." She folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them. "At least when Mum died, it was an accident," she said quietly.

Pyrrha felt something nick her still-speeding heart as the memory resurfaced. She'd been there to see it happen, watched from aside as Mrs. Pitcher, tipsy on holiday libations, teetered backward on the tips of her toes to tumble off the chair and break her neck against the floor, the iridescent stone Christmas star clattering from her lifeless hand.

It was the first death Pyrrha carried on her conscience; she'd been sitting nearby absorbed in a book long since forgotten, vaguely registering the woman conceding the search for her misplaced wand. Pyrrha could've done anything—summoned the wand, floated the ornament herself, reacted fast enough to break her fall—but she hadn't, and in doing nothing, she'd killed Daisy's mother to preserve her place on the page.

In the aftermath—and ever since—she'd wanted to confess, but never found the nerve. Either the Pitchers would forgive her or condemn her, and Pyrrha still wasn't sure which would be worse.

 _"Forgiveness."_ Ashlin said the word like a curse. The scar throbbed with simmering heat. _"You deserve hatred."_

Heat and pain and horrible visions had effectively sapped Pyrrha's appetite. She stared at her nearly full plate, contemplating the future. All she imagined were the myriad ways she could visit everlasting suffering on an immortal.

"Pyrrha," Daisy said, tone apologetic. She continued when their eyes met. "Why wouldn't you cast the Patronus?"

Pyrrha's mind worked like a shoddy machine, rusted and plodding as it fabricated. "I had difficulty drawing up happiness."

Daisy's expression fell. "But you didn't even try. How could you know it wouldn't work? Wouldn't it have been worth a go, at least?"

Pyrrha couldn't tell the truth of it, that the spell was liable to produce a ravenous swarm of rats rather than a Patronus, an unmistakable mark of the dark magics that stained her. "I couldn't," she said eventually.

"Why not?"

Pyrrha sighed, rubbing at a headache near her temple. "I'm sorry. I'm not going to talk about this, either."

Daisy ran her hands over her face in a show of exasperation. "For God's sake, I wish you'd hurry up and realize you can trust—"

Screeching filled the air like a thousand knives rasping together and descended in the form of a flock; the owls of Hogwarts soared in by the hundreds, myriad sets of yellow eyes burning into Pyrrha's as they poured through the charmed ceiling to fill the hall in a turbulent storm of talons and feathers.

Pyrrha was on her feet; from the tip of her raised wand spread a glittering blue barrier rippling out like a disturbed pool until it enveloped the three of them. Hati barked and clawed savagely at the charm's border, at the owls surrounding it, hurling themselves against every inch of the shield they could reach. Daisy's wand spat lightning through the shimmering shell to arc through the swarm; the booming report seemed to stay their shrieks for an instant as a dozen owls dropped dead, a dozen more in their place to maintain the frenzied assault.

Pyrrha could see nothing beyond her charm for the plague of owls pressing in between each other, possessed of a desperate passion, as if Pyrrha could grant them their wildest desires if only they could reach her, rend her apart for the secrets inside. They called out without sign of tiring, and Hati bayed back at them as his claws slid off the barrier. Daisy hurled bolt after blinding bolt into the masses, burst after deafening burst of curses punctuating the unholy racket.

Pyrrha caught her arm mid-cast. "No need!" she shouted over the clamor. "They can't breach the barrier."

"Oh, well, that's fantastic!" Daisy said. "I suppose we'll just stay here, then. Which side of the floor do you want?"

"Calm down. I'll take care of them." Pyrrha released her and ambled along the barrier's circumference, eyeing the ensorcelled owls. They bombarded the barrier with their bodies, bashing in their brains, dark blood running down to join their broken forms on the floor. Above, those with purchase pecked and clawed. Stray feathers fell loose with each flap of their wings to flutter in the air that smelled faintly of rot.

Pyrrha gestured with her wand, and the barrier absorbed an owl as it pushed through to be encased in a glittering bubble, the shield sealing itself behind. The bird hooted madly from its cage, beating wings and piercing beak battering away with abandon. As Pyrrha studied the animal, Hati stared with equal intensity, tensed in preparation to pounce.

"What do you see?" Daisy asked in her ear, and Pyrrha started. "Sorry," she added. "They're so loud!"

"Necrosis," Pyrrha replied, performing an experimental wand wave. A pale green spell twirled around the bird like a twister, then dissipated, leaving the owl unaltered. Its eyes wept brackish blood as it battered at its confines. Pyrrha pointed to the macabre trails. "See there?"

"It's nearly coagulated," Daisy said, horrified. "You're right—they're dying! Oh, this is awful. Could you help them, do you think?"

"Only by ending their pain," Pyrrha said, reducing the captive owl to dust. Hati watched with disappointment as the remains drifted away before turning his attention back to the uproarious mass. "Morrigan's touch has tainted their bodies, along with their minds."

"Bloody monster," Daisy said, voice steely. "Get on with it, then. I'm starting to get a headache."

Pyrrha nodded and gestured; the glittering barrier spread along the ground like water, passing around tables and chairs to lap at the edges of the room. At another movement the spell trickled up the walls, upended waterfalls of magic creeping high to corral the owls in the upper half of the chamber. A precise maneuver saw the room-spanning spell stretch further, caressing the charmed ceiling, and it closed over the owls like an ethereal net, encasing them in their own glimmering blue sphere.

"Well . . . that was quite something," Daisy said. "Are you keeping them for study, or . . . ?"

By way of answer, Pyrrha twirled her wand. The cage contracted, closing in on itself and carrying the owls with it. The spell collapsed inward, and they were crushed against each other, calling out feeble protests as they died. Hollow bones crackled like so many dry twigs. The spell flickered as it shrank further and further until it held the size and shape of a marble, and it consumed itself, disappearing in a wink of azure light.

The hall practically vibrated with the sudden silence. Blood and feathers obscured the floor and covered the remains of breakfast. This didn't seem to deter Hati, who huffed at where the owls had disappeared before leaping heavily onto the staff table and digging out a series of sausage links.

"So, how did they get in?" Daisy said. "Should we leave? That witch could be right behind them."

Pyrrha shook her head and glared up at the enchanted ceiling, great billowing grey clouds like the uneven underbelly of some massive, ashen entity. "The castle permits owls in and out of the Great Hall. I should've anticipated this."

"She still can't break in, then? We're safe?"

"For the moment."

Pyrrha probed the charmed ceiling and found nothing to warrant immediate concern; she could feel Morrigan's influence eroding the enchantments like ocean waves against a cliff, but the castle was holding its own, for the time being. A sweeping gesture saw the scattered feathers and spatters of blood vanished from the room, taking the stench of death away with them.

Daisy paced back and forth, hands twisting together, brow furrowed. "What are we going to do, Pyrrha? How do we fight someone like this?" The resolve in her voice was unnerving.

 _"We_ don't do anything," Pyrrha said. "I'll be here for two more days maximum, then I'll be going. The castle will hold that long. When I move on, I expect her to follow, and you to remain here."

Daisy stopped and turned sharply around, face set and determined. "You're not going anywhere without me. You need my help, and you're going to have it. And don't even think about cursing me," she added, a hard glint in her eyes.

"You can help me by staying here, where it's safe."

"I'm sorry, did we attend the same breakfast?"

Pyrrha let out a sharp, annoyed breath. "It _will_ be safe, once I've left."

Daisy shook her head, maddeningly obstinate. "I'm coming along, and that's the end of it."

It was plain to see Daisy wouldn't change her mind, so Pyrrha let it drop. She would simply have to slip away unnoticed. As Pyrrha considered in silence, Daisy began to look suspicious at the lack of further argument.

Pyrrha sighed, as if relenting. "Very well. I wish you wouldn't, but I can't stop you."

Daisy smiled with narrowed eyes, expression still one of evident distrust. "No. Don't worry, I'm quite capable of handling . . ." Her eyes widened as they rose over Pyrrha to the ceiling, and Pyrrha turned to follow her gaze.

A dark shape in the sky stood out against the clouds, twin yellow pinpricks boring into Pyrrha's eyes the instant they met. No more than an emaciated silhouette, the figure hung limp in the air like a neglected puppet, scraps of clothing and flesh alike wavering in the wind. Rain began pattering down, muted droplets drumming the roof and obscuring the witch behind a shivering veil. Her eyes shined clearly through sheets of rainfall.

"What's she doing up there?" Daisy asked quietly. "The enchantment doesn't go both ways, right? She can't see in."

Pyrrha kept staring up at the witch, fury seething in her belly. "She's looking at me."

Daisy exhaled a shuddering breath from beside her. "Come on, let's get to my room. I'll be able to pass right out after we've finished talking." She led the way from the Great Hall, cloaking herself in transparency as they went. Hati followed close behind, sausage links trailing from his jaws. "No bloody windows in there. Never thought I'd be happy about that."

* * *

Pyrrha recounted her trials in the Forbidden Forest to Daisy as the exhausted woman sank steadily in her chair, minute by minute. A mere lack of energy was no obstacle to her, however; her eyes remained alert as she mustered round after round of questions about everything she'd seen and heard. Hati paced restlessly over the modest room's dark carpet as they burned away the morning. The deluge of terrible news in the last several hours would have overtaken a lesser person, but Daisy treaded water resolutely, offering one suggestion after another after yet more that Pyrrha had to shoot down.

"Fine, alright," Daisy said irritably. "So what exactly can she do, then? Tell me what we're working with." Her attitude continued to surprise Pyrrha, as if their current situation was familiar and innocuous as the sunrise.

Pyrrha soothed her parched throat with piping hot lemon tea as she considered. "Well, let's see . . . you've seen the power she holds over animals." They both cast half an uneasy glance at Hati stretching his sinewy limbs across Daisy's bed.

"Yeah," Daisy said softly.

"Aside from that, she's a masterful duelist with a vast repertoire of ancient spells at her disposal. She's invulnerable to harm, physical or otherwise; most of my spells simply slid off of her, and what managed to damage her was reversed in the next instant."

"How can that be?" Daisy asked. "Any idea?"

Pyrrha rubbed at her scar, no feeling but unpleasant heat in the spot as her fingers brushed the ruined skin. "I suspect her resilience is part of whatever curse she laid upon herself in pursuit of immortality, but it's only that—a suspicion. I've never heard of or seen anything like it."

Daisy twined her fingers together in her lap. "I suppose that rules out fighting her head-on. Not even an army of you could kill her in a duel."

"She's a shapeshifter as well," Pyrrha said. "I've seen her become an entire flock of crows. If the old stories are to be believed—and I think they are—she can change into any sort of animal. Well beyond a typical animagus."

"I don't see how that helps her, really," Daisy commented. "She's better off in 'human' shape, where she can cast magic."

"True. It's something to keep in mind, though." Pyrrha downed the rest of her tea, wishing she drank. "Her most significant ability is the manipulation of the mind, highly advanced Legilimency, augmented by her staff. She has the power to bend unguarded minds to her will, drive them mad, or incapacitate them with horrible visions crafted from the victim's own worst experiences."

Daisy shuddered a little, hugging herself against a perceived chill, though the fire still crackled merrily nearby. "Sounds like a dementor." After a moment, she unfolded herself to refill Pyrrha's cup and sat back again, biting her lip. "Could Occlumency protect you? Did you have visions during your duel?"

"Yes and yes," Pyrrha said, insides turning cold at the recollection. "I employed Occlumency throughout. When my concentration slipped, or I met her gaze, I heard voices screaming, pleading, reviling me." Their howling still echoed in her memory, each word a strike deep within herself, harming her as only she knew how. "They were you and Ashlin, my parents and yours . . . even my own voice."

Daisy's expression shifted into concern, a face too familiar. "That's . . . awful."

Pyrrha nodded. She'd also seen them as they rose from the earth like cursed undead, killed them over and over as they entreated her to stop hurting them. It haunted her still, her mother's agonized wails as she was struck down again and again, her father's roared scorn as Ashlins and Daisies died with one question shining in their eyes: Why?

 _"Focus!"_ Ashlin snapped, making Pyrrha jump. The scar flared like boiling water poured over her.

"Are you—?" Daisy started.

"Fine. Thank you." Pyrrha held a neutral expression as she fought against reacting. She couldn't hide her quickened breaths, so she spoke: "Finally, she appears to know exactly where I am at all times. I don't know how," she added as Daisy made to speak. "Not even a theory."

"Well . . . you don't think it could be that?" Daisy motioned at Pyrrha's head. "It's the only curse she landed on you."

 _"Ridiculous! I'd never do anything to hurt you,"_ Ashlin cooed. _"Set her straight, Pyrrha."_

 _Hurting me is all you do,_ Pyrrha thought. Scorching pain followed, carving down from her skull across her body like knives peeling her flesh.

 _"Liar, liar, head on fire!"_ Ashlin's unhinged voice rang like a cracked bell in Pyrrha's head as it smouldered. _"You're doing this to yourself—such horrible things you say about your own sister!"_

"Pyrrha, what's wrong? It's hurting again, isn't it?" Daisy's voice came from far away as fire continued to ebb down from the scar.

 _"You're glad I'm here. I'm the only Ashlin you'll ever have. You love me."_

Pyrrha couldn't blink, but she didn't see whatever she stared at. Her muscles wound themselves tightly about her, protesting the agony, refusing to follow her direction.

 _"Say it."_

Pyrrha sat like a statue, rolling waves of hurt beating across her body like the throes of a dying heart. The room flickered black in time with the pulses, each throb a little death, and Pyrrha gave in before she could scream.

 _I'm glad you're here. I love you._ She filled the words with all of her hatred. Vaguely, she was aware of something sickly sweet dripping down her throat.

The pain faded, leaving behind a bone-deep ache across every part of her. _"Good,"_ Ashlin whispered. Pyrrha could almost picture her soft, sweet smile. _"You'll mean it one day."_

Pyrrha turned her focus back outward and became aware of Daisy standing over her, eyes wide with worry, assorted vials clutched between her fingers. Pyrrha felt guilt and fear bleeding through her gaze.

"You're back—are—?" Daisy began.

"Yes," Pyrrha said quickly. "It's passed. The potion helped; thank you." She could feel the effects of the philter dulling her aches, but it did nothing for the low burn of her scar.

"Alright, well, take these anyway, you need it—you hardly ate breakfast."

Pyrrha paused in the act of bringing a vial to her lips. "These won't make me drowsy, will they? I need a clear head to heal myself."

Daisy shook her head. "The opposite, even. This one for energy, this one to promote reconstitution." She reclaimed her seat, wringing her hands as Pyrrha downed the potions. "I'm so sorry—I did that, didn't I? Triggered it, or something?"

"No," Pyrrha said firmly. "You did nothing wrong. It's passed; let's move on." Daisy looked as if she suspected Pyrrha of placating her, expression laden with remorse. Pyrrha massaged her temples, a headache forming in defiance of Daisy's ministrations. "Now," Pyrrha said, "we were discussing . . ."

"How Morrigan might be finding you," Daisy supplied quietly, eyes fixed on the table between them.

"Yes. It's not the curse," Pyrrha said. It probably was; however, her prospects for breaking it were slim at best. "And there are no other spells over me, either. I believe it's out of my control. I'll simply have to remain out of her reach. It's likely she has many other skills we have no notion of; it may help us to focus on what she seems unable to do." Pyrrha ran a hand over her bound hair as she thought. "She can't apparate, or otherwise traverse distances instantly. If she could, I'd be dead."

Daisy winced, but remained silent. The logs in the fire crackled and snapped, never really burning under the charmed flames. Ripping sounds filled the room as Hati gave in to his restless energy and shredded Daisy's sheets, disemboweled the mattress with teeth and claws in a sudden burst of energy. He pounced across the bed and snapped up a pillow, whipping it around as if to break the neck of a fat, writhing rabbit. Daisy laughed softly, and they shared a smile at the diversion.

A minute later, Daisy broke the silence. "She can't hide," she offered. "Can't sneak up on you. Even if she becomes an animal, the eyes will give her right away."

"You're right," Pyrrha said with a nod. "That, and the army of creatures at her back, ensure that I'll always see her coming, even be it at the last moment." They pondered in silence for a while longer, and finally, Pyrrha sighed. "And I suppose that's it. She has few limitations."

Daisy hummed thoughtfully, then cracked a smile. "She can't break into Hogwarts."

Pyrrha chuckled quietly. "The owls didn't count?"

"'Course not. Didn't help her any, did it? She's out there rotting in the rain."

They fell back into a companionable quiet as they absorbed recent events. The soft snapping of the fire was joined by a hushed number from the wireless at Daisy's bedside table, switched on at a flick of her wand. Hati jolted around at the sound, glaring at the device with suspicion. Daisy giggled, and Pyrrha admonished the wolf as he raised a paw in readiness to rake the radio off the table. He lowered the limb with a surly glance at her.

Daisy stood to tend to the teapot hanging over the fire, and Pyrrha gave the living space a proper look. The room appeared to house most of her possessions; everything was arranged in much the same way as her flat had been, with a veritable gallery of pictures adorning the walls, eclectic oddities occupying available surfaces, a careworn gramophone with Gambara's discography stacked readily beside it. Against the far wall sat a modest vanity bearing assorted cosmetics, an elegant square mirror framed in silver resting atop. Pyrrha eyed the vibrant scar in her reflection.

"You've seen better days, dear," the mirror told Pyrrha. "Consider a mask."

"Shut up, you!" Daisy shot back as she returned to her seat, giving Pyrrha an apologetic glance, her eyes flicking to the scar. She leaned forward over the table and spoke gently, as if to stay out of earshot. "I'm sure I could figure something out, if you wanted me to try . . . ?"

Pyrrha shook her head, amused. "I'll be fine," she said at normal volume. "I'm used to standing out."

Her Hogwarts years were long stretches of study in solitude, periodically interrupted by snide remarks and unsubtle glowering from her peers. She'd found no worth in them, and ignored their presence as much as possible in the hope they would return the favor. Instead, they had pegged her for an egotistic bitch—a notion not without merit—and delighted in needling her.

An ugly scar on her face was no great trial, hardly worth noting. It would change nothing for her.

"Yes, but you hate it," Daisy said, frowning. "Let me give it a go, at least. I've got a Blindspot Brush—"

"Really, it's fine. Thank you." Pyrrha cast another glance at her reflection.

"A cowl, a hijab, anything," the mirror continued. "For the sake of those around you, if not yourself."

"You're rather chatty for a shattered mirror," Daisy snapped.

"Relax your face, dear. You appear as if something is lodged—"

The mirror broke into a spiderweb of cracks at Daisy's spell. She huffed an irritated breath as she tucked her wand away. "Sorry. Dan fiddled with the charms on it."

"Ah." Pyrrha eyed the mirror, then the organized chaos of obscuring and enhancing agents clustered on the vanity. One would think Daisy a hideous creature if they'd never seen her for her plethora of cosmetic products. She was, in fact, one of the most objectively attractive people Pyrrha knew. It was one of the reasons for the number of friends represented on the walls, and one of the reasons Daisy preferred Pyrrha's company over theirs, she suspected.

Daisy had followed her eyes to the makeup. "Thinking of putting something on?" she asked with a cheeky smile. "Some smouldering eyeshadow, or a daring shade of nail polish, maybe? It's never too late to try new things. Just watch out for that one," she said, pointing at a glossy black tube set apart from the others. "Leering Lipstick. It'll have you grinning like a psychopath for hours."

Pyrrha hummed with amusement, noticing the miniscule WWW logo around the cap. "And why do you have such a thing?"

"Dan gave it to me the night before my interview," Daisy said, shaking her head ruefully. "A thoughtful gesture out of the blue like that—I should've known. I had to reschedule."

Pyrrha smiled, and Daisy feigned an affronted expression. "Sorry. That's unfortunate. Why would he do that?"

"His own annoying way of letting me know how he felt about my taking the job, I guess." She shrugged halfheartedly at Pyrrha's quirked eyebrow, trying too hard for nonchalance. "He broke things off after I accepted."

"Oh." Pyrrha placed a hand over Daisy's on the table. "I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Daisy said quickly, swiping at her eyes. "It's hardly important now, with everything else going on, right? It's only . . ." Daisy's hand twitched away to seek the other, but Pyrrha held firm, an encouraging squeeze all she needed. Daisy smiled sadly as she continued, addressing the table. "I just can't believe—I mean, we've dated for years, and just like that, he's finished with us? Because I wouldn't be around quite as much? It seemed so easy for him, like I meant nothing at all . . ."

Pyrrha commiserated with her friend, listening with a sympathetic ear as Daisy spoke at length of their relationship, the good and the bad. Listening was easier than speaking, but Pyrrha offered what she could in comfort along the way. She reminded Daisy of the time she'd given Dan a mermaid's tail in front of their friends and christened him 'Merman Dan', a moniker that had stuck for the rest of school. Daisy laughed as Pyrrha promised not to stop at the lower half next time.

"Oh, that was a lovely day," Daisy said with a beaming smile. "Just wonderful. I still can't believe you agreed to come along. That's . . ." She broke off to yawn, settling back contentedly in her chair. "That's my Patronus memory, sometimes. Works like a charm."

Pyrrha felt her face stiffen along with her body. Something stirred in her that shouldn't—anger. It wasn't rational. A perfect day was precisely what she'd wanted for Daisy, who'd lost her mother to Pyrrha earlier that year. She'd agreed to join Daisy's friends and her for a swim at the lake after the O.W.L.s, and had taken the Draught of Peace beforehand. She'd been relaxed and friendly. Sociable. Utterly different.

That was Daisy's favorite memory of her; a time she wasn't herself at all. It only made sense, she supposed, a sinking feeling in her chest. She was too subdued, too withdrawn for anyone to take pleasure in her company, even Daisy.

"Pyrrha? Everything alright?" Daisy asked with worry. "Is it your scar again?"

"No—I mean, yes. A bit." Pyrrha stood abruptly, carefully controlling her tone. "You're exhausted, and I've things to do." She waved her wand over Daisy's bed, the scattered stuffing and scraps of fabric flying back to knit themselves together. "Goodnight, Daisy."

Pyrrha left the room and pretended not to hear Daisy calling after her, nearly shutting the door on Hati along the way.

* * *

In her haste, Pyrrha had neglected to get the password to the Slytherin common room from Daisy. Rather than return or waste precious time breaking in, she made a detour to the sealed room where the comatose staff languished, and she plucked the knowledge from the Headmaster's mind. On the way to the dungeons she was intercepted by the castle's other occupant, the centaur she had all but forgotten.

His arrival was preceded by clopping against the stone floor echoing weirdly off the walls. Pyrrha paused at the top of the dungeon stairs, placing a calming hand on Hati's head, who watched intently as the centaur rounded a corridor's corner and approached them warily, expression shrouded in dim torchlight.

"What news of the witch?" he asked, stopping well away from Hati's immediate reach. "Has anything happened?"

"Not yet. I'll be leaving inside of two days, and she will follow. You'll be safe to rejoin your brethren in the forest after that; I won't return." Pyrrha stopped with her foot on the stair as the centaur spoke again.

"She pursues you?"

"That's what I said."

Soft clacking rang as the centaur stepped closer. He glanced at Hati, a warning rumble in the wolf's chest stopping him short. "How do you intend to survive her attention?"

Irritated, Pyrrha turned away without another word and descended the steps, Hati picking his careful way down behind her. The air grew steadily colder as they went until the stairs terminated in a series of torchlit corridors that Pyrrha navigated with easy familiarity. Here and there, ghosts observed her progress from afar, peeking through distant walls or around far corners, faces pale and grim.

Pyrrha wondered at their behavior; could they recognize her, a student from over a decade past? She doubted it, but there was no other reason she could see for them to treat her with such caution.

 _"They think you're the one who's been scurrying around invisibly,"_ Ashlin said. _"Perhaps Daisy's given them a reason to fear."_

 _She said she hadn't had any trouble with them._

 _"And she'd never keep things from you,"_ Ashlin said sarcastically.

 _What reason could she have for that?_

 _"Who cares? Just take it as a lesson; you can't trust anyone. Except for me, of course."_

Pyrrha dropped that thread rather than risk Ashlin's ire. After a few more twists and turns, she arrived before the inconspicuous stretch of wall that concealed the entrance to the Slytherin common room. She could feel pearly white eyes on her neck as she whispered the password.

 _"Ouroboros."_

The stone bricks of the wall slid silently away, revealing a portal, lower than Pyrrha remembered. She and Hati entered the Slytherin common room, an expansive and well-furnished den replete with motifs of silver, green and black, the substantial fireplace and several torches insufficient to chase away the dungeon gloom entirely. The low ceiling and dark atmosphere lent credence to the secure feeling of a formidable serpent's lair. Hati darted across the room in the space of a few seconds, enticed by the chamber's most prominent amenity.

The stone of the far wall, and a significant portion of the ceiling adjoined, was almost entirely transparent; just enough substance to reassure one that there was, in fact, a barrier between themselves and the bottom of the Black Lake. Hati stood on his hind legs, front paws against the charmed wall as he peered into the lake's murky depths. The afternoon sun expended itself partway into the green-tinged water, leaving the lowest reaches to fade into darkness complete as closed eyes at the lake bed, the vaguest outlines of swaying seaweed barely visible in the black.

Pyrrha left the wolf to his marveling, crossing the room to pass through a corridor, through the sturdy oak door into her old dormitory. Six four-poster beds sat against the back wall, each tall enough to shelter a trunk underneath. A wide table and benches occupied one side of the room, the other housing several doors in the wall leading to the bathrooms. It was odd to see the space so bare, clear of Ariel's scattered magazines and Hollis's ill-tempered cat, Luscinia's melodic humming glaringly absent in the silence.

Ashlin was where she hadn't been, cross-legged atop the table. "You're stalling. Let's get this over with, yeah? Like ripping out a bandage."

Pyrrha couldn't suppress a small shudder as she straddled a bench and laid her replacement leg down its length with a clank, drawing a clean tear down her robes with her wand. She parted the garment out of the way and began casting over the limb; it shined as it melted into the air like molten metal with none of the heat, dissolving into misty wisps before wavering into nothing. Left behind was the uneven stump of her thigh, ragged, as if bitten away by a monster with jagged teeth.

Ashlin leaned over curiously as Pyrrha directed her wand at the wound; the flesh bubbled like a chemical reaction, and it felt like hundreds of insects teething on the skin as the leg began to reform, the magic pulling from her lifeblood like a grisly siphon. The thigh seemed to melt into being, flesh pouring down to form a newborn knee, a calf, an ankle. Relief swept her as the spell ceased its hold on her heart, and she worked the newborn limb, somehow paler than the rest of her. The leg tingled with needle pinpricks, but that feeling would pass.

Her afflicted heart was another matter. The ache was ever more prominent, each pulse bearing a pang of pain outward to tax her body. It fluttered with something more than fear; it was straining, faint throbs thrumming like the overextended ends of a taut string strummed, threatening to untether at the lightest pressure.

Pyrrha drew from her bag a large jar of clouded green fluid that glowed faintly with alien emerald light, chasing away the dimness. She opened the lid with a tap and set the vessel aside on the floor; a pungent and antiseptic smell seeped through the air. A bottle of bitter potion went down in three swallows. Ashlin stood and stepped to her side as Pyrrha laid herself flat upon the table, the upper half of her robes parting open at a flick of her wand, her underclothes following suit.

The air was cold against her bare chest as it heaved with anxiety, dread pressing down on her as if she lay at the bottom of the lake, bearing the water's frigid weight with what strength in her lungs remained. The torment that awaited her held her arm down against the table.

"There's no other way." Ashlin's voice was calm and soothing, accompanied by a cool hand across her forehead. "With pain inhibitors and severe blood loss combined, the risk of passing out is too high." Ashlin was attempting to comfort her, repeating what she already knew. Her bright blue eyes captured Pyrrha's and shined down with warmth. "You can do this. You've done it before."

Ashlin's hand slipped into hers as she raised her other arm, directing the tip of her wand at her own chest. She flicked before she could falter; her ribcage burst open to a fountain of blood that splattered the room, and everything was agony. To hesitate was to die; she cast in quick succession, the fresh heart darting from its preservative jar to sink into the space left by the old, her ribs cracking as they folded shut behind it like a macabre trap. The room swam with darkness and Pyrrha's chest burned as if she drowned in fire, heaving rattling breaths and releasing them in raw, howling screams.

Minute after torturous minute passed like hours, and it seemed the pain would never fade. Ashlin cradled her head as she spasmed on the table, whispered empty comforts as she wailed her anguish to the uncaring room that dripped her own blood in her face, falling from the ceiling like the corpse of a downpour. She could hear barking and scraping, but couldn't make sense of it. All there was was there with her; pain, Ashlin, and the air that seared her chest with each breath, the piercing cries that rang in her ears.

Lifetimes later, Pyrrha slid off the table onto the bench, the light jolt like a knife to the heart. She gasped for air cold and coarse against her raw throat, lightheaded and numb. Onto the floor she sank, soft words of encouragement from Ashlin entirely insensible. She dragged herself across the carpet, every inch a mile, until she clutched at a bedspread; blindly she pulled herself up, helped along by Ashlin, until her broken body crossed the bed. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears in time with her throbbing chest, slowly abating its frenetic pace as sleep came to claim her pain.


	8. Chapter 8

The world shook Pyrrha awake with a dull _BOOM._

Her first waking breath drew in as much agony as air. Her body throbbed with each beat of her heart that struck like a thrown stone, sending blood that burned streams of molten lead through her limbs; inside her stomach, a mire of bile threatened to sear through her innards and drown them in acid.

 _BOOM._

 _"Wallow in pain later,"_ Ashlin said. _"Something's knocking at our door."_

Pyrrha pulled herself from the bed and sank onto her knees, crawling over the carpet on trembling limbs. She could see, but it was all wrong, out of focus; the table was a dark blur ahead of her, the benches long and fuzzy shapes blending with the dimness. Her head bumped the wood, and she pulled herself up on the bench to lean across, groping blindly under the table for her wand.

 _BOOM._

Ashlin was there, crouched beneath the table with an impatient expression clear as the rest of the world wasn't. She pointed to a mismatched strip of darkness, and Pyrrha snatched at it, scraping up her wand with stiff fingers. Pushing up from the bench, she stood on shaking legs and staggered to the door that was nothing more to her than a discolored patch in the wall, and she threw it open with all of her strength.

 _BOOM._

Pyrrha stumbled down the corridor, held upright by a hand against the wall as she turned the corners without watching her path, guided by ingrained memory. Hati's booming barks rang out from the common room, resounding down the hall to her like guttural gunshots and beating against her head. She shambled into the room with her wand aimed at nothing.

 _BOOM._

The ground shook again, and it was enough to unsteady her as she went; she tripped and fell against a couch, the landing like an anvil to the chest. The wide open area was a sea of indistinct shapes in shades of darkness. A patch of pale silver darted up and down the far end of the room, baying and howling. Something past Hati shifted, an enormous grey form sweeping down from the fathomless waters above to impact the wall.

 _BOOM._

Cracking stone split the air. Hati's barking grew more urgent, and alarm coursed through Pyrrha anew as she heard his paws splashing when they hit the floor. She squinted up into the expanse of dark water. Overhead, like a gleaming sun in the blackness of space, a massive yellow eye shined upon them. A monumental grey tentacle whipped down with stunning speed and slammed across the dungeon wall.

 _BOOM._

More cracks of groaning stone, followed by trickling water as the walls wept the lake into their domain. Pyrrha called Hati with her heart pounding in her throat as she propelled herself with her arms along the furniture, taking three tries to shore up the stone with a charm as she went. The wolf met her at the exit, panting excitably, and she propped herself on his broad back as she tapped at the wall with her wand. A flash of light made her glance back as the wall slid open.

 _BOOM._

The thunderous cascade of shattered stone was quickly drowned by the swell of water roaring through the room. The tide overtook them before she could raise her arm, and she was blasted across the hall to impact the opposite wall, stars winking to life in her vision. Pyrrha cast blindly, blessedly hitting her mark; the charmed entrance began to slide closed again, straining against the torrent from the lake. As she craned her neck to keep above the surge she caught a final glimpse of the common room while the wall closed, sealing behind it a pair of glowing yellow eyes growing closer.

She had only moments; Pyrrha yanked her arm from the water and performed an intricate motion at the wall. Her chest hurt as the blood was drawn, as if each drop were at all edges serrated, and it swirled across the hall in crimson coils to spread over the sealed entrance. The blood sank into the stone as if swallowed, a faint hiss sounding over the splashing water.

The deluge had already run down below her waist. Pyrrha sank against the frigid wall to the flooded floor, Hati paddling up to nuzzle her face intently, as if urging her on.

"Have to be sure . . . the wall holds . . ." Pyrrha said weakly, patting the wolf's head. She twirled her wand at him, and he jumped, giving a startled grumble.

"Bark for me, would you . . . ?"

The wolf stared, dubious expression barely perceptible even inches from her face. He opened his jaws, and instead of barks, her own voice rang out.

 _"Run. Run."_

The wolf made a startled noise in his throat, and Pyrrha laughed softly. "It'll wear off. If the witch breaks through, I'll delay her . . . If that happens, I need you to . . . to go find Daisy and flee. Can you . . . can you do that for me?"

 _"Run."_ Hati growled his dissatisfaction, but grudgingly nudged Pyrrha's face with his nose in assent.

"Thank you," Pyrrha sighed. She was too exhausted, too battered to feel anything but empty, even at the prospect of death looming beyond a charmed wall. "Let's see what happens."

In the semidarkness they sat side by side to the gentle sound of water flowing down each end of the hall until the sodden floor was only submerged by an inch. The wall held firm, without hint of giving way while they watched with unwavering gazes. Pyrrha brushed a hand through Hati's soaked fur as she fought to stay awake. The wolf nipped at her hand when she nodded off, sniffing at her chest with a whine. Pyrrha looked down at herself, her robes still parted open from before.

A jagged red line of torn flesh ran down the center of her chest, seeping blood down into her robes. She'd aggravated the damage. Groggily, she ran her wand up and down the wound, slowly sealing it, mending her robes afterward. From her pouch she plucked a bottle of Blood-Replenishing Potion and unstoppered it with clumsy fingers, taking a healthy swig.

Alertness made a halfhearted return as the potion took effect. For several minutes more they sat watch, and Pyrrha alternated examining the wall and peering down the corridors, hoping in vain for the smallest improvement in her vision. Nothing eventful occurred in either case. The silence from beyond the wall was equally unnerving and reassuring, a breath-abating stalemate laden with deadly potentialities that Pyrrha's mind hummed with in the air's inertia.

The quiet unbroken, eventually Pyrrha was satisfied. With some difficulty she pushed herself upright from Hati's back, and together they made their halting way through the dungeons and up the stairs, undoing her voice charm and drying their bodies as they went. They were relatively safe, for the moment.

The centaur stood waiting at the top of the steps as if he hadn't moved from hours before. "I heard—well, several things. Are you well? What happened down there?"

Pyrrha looked up as she leaned on the wall. The centaur's head had no more detail than a patch of black fuzz. "Morrigan. She . . . enthralled the giant squid. It smashed into the . . . the common room. Flooded it." Pyrrha still labored for breath. The lingering side effects of replacing her heart, this time, were more acute and diverse than they'd ever been.

"Orion's orbs," the centaur said, dismayed. "Such power is . . ." He trailed off, not needing to finish the thought. "You must bring about her end," he said firmly. "You're the only one who can."

Pyrrha turned away to limp down along the corridor wall, no destination in mind but away. She felt more than saw Hati pacing beside her. To her surprise, the centaur fell into a trot alongside them, ignoring Hati's automatic growl.

"After we last spoke, I decided to consult the stars on your behalf," he began.

"And what . . . what did they tell you?" Pyrrha didn't bother to mask her annoyance. Divination was as close to worthless as magic could be; utterly unfocused, consistent only in its inconsistency. It hadn't helped the centaurs one whit, clearly; they'd have been long gone from the forest before Morrigan arrived if the heavens cared at all for their most devoted of adherents.

"You're a skeptic," he observed. "Not unexpected." For some inscrutable reason, the thought seemed to amuse him.

"Not skeptical . . ." Divination was certainly a proven art, after all, no matter how little it was worth. "Simply unimpressed . . . something funny?"

"Only the whims of fate," he said. "The stars don't always answer our calls, but this time, they did."

Pyrrha's temper was beginning to fray. She paused in her steps with a grimace as her heart twinged. "Say your piece, then . . . or leave me be."

"Certainly." The centaur was silent a moment, then spoke with care. "You've lost something precious."

Pyrrha staggered to a halt again, rage flooding her with fire begging for direction. "Not lost—taken." The scar bled heat into her skull.

"Yes," the centaur said quietly. "And then it was returned to you in parts, twofold."

Returned in parts? Ashlin had returned in the form of a curse, a persistent delusion. It was one small fragment of her, but nothing more. Pyrrha hadn't received anything else of her sister.

"I don't . . . you're wrong."

The centaur ignored her. "The parts will never be made whole, but they will help you attain the knowledge you seek. You . . . you will endure," he finished heavily.

Pyrrha stood propped by her arm against the wall. They'd stopped by one door in a set along the corridor. "That's it, then?"

The centaur's fuzzy head bobbed in what must've been a nod. "That is the whole of it. It's my hope that time will bring clarity to the message."

Pyrrha sighed. "Mine, as well. The thought is appreciated, at least."

The centaur bowed his head as Pyrrha turned away to open the door, not knowing or caring where it led. "It was only right," he said. "In bringing me here, you saved my life."

Pyrrha nodded absently over her shoulder and stepped inside, Hati slipping in after her as she shut the door.

It was a bathroom. Though all she could see was fuzzy whiteness interspersed with patches of grey, she could feel the tiles under her newly regenerated foot. She staggered for the sinks, splashing water over her face, sipping from cupped hands. The mirror reflected only a red blur surrounded by darkness.

Pyrrha turned away, conjured a bed and collapsed onto it, feeling as if one good jolt would shake her apart. She let her wand clatter to the floor and let go of her thoughts the same way, drifting off to sleep.

* * *

"Up, up, up! Come on! We've got a witch to kill."

Pyrrha groaned into her pillow. Her body felt less dead than it had before, and the ache throughout her chest had dulled considerably. She kept her eyes shut, dreading to wake to an indistinct wash of color.

"And how do you propose we go about that?" Pyrrha said, throat raspy and dry. "She can't be harmed."

"Yes she can," Ashlin retorted. "I blew her head off myself. It just didn't stick, that's all."

"That's all," Pyrrha repeated, voice low and incredulous. She sat up and rubbed at her eyes still firmly closed. Her bare foot brushed the cool tile floor, and she sighed as the previous night's events replayed in her head.

"Yeah," Ashlin said. "Morrigan nearly broke in and gutted you, and you spent the night in a lavatory. It's all uphill from here, hopefully."

Hogwarts had held up for a shorter period than Pyrrha had expected, but it was enough. The castle was no longer safe; she would have to depart today, and leave Daisy behind. There was only one logical place to go next.

"Obviously," Ashlin said. "But we should do some thinking before you go charging off. We've still got time. First on the agenda . . ." she said over Pyrrha, a flare of heat silencing her. "You're an idiot."

Pyrrha stood and felt her way around Hati and the bed to the sinks along the walls, washing her face and wetting her throat. "Excellent. Now that that's out of the way . . ."

 _"Why_ are you an idiot?" Ashlin pretended to repeat an unasked question. "I truly don't know. If you meant to ask _in what way,_ that I can tell you; the answer to the question of Morrigan's source of power is staring you in the face."

Pyrrha opened her eyes to her reflection in the mirror, dark eyes ringed with dark shadows, the scar stretching across her face like tongues of fire spreading from the charred flesh under her temple. Tentatively she raised her gaze over her shoulder, and she could see the details of the bed a few feet behind, a simple frame of wrought iron with unremarkable dark blue sheets. Ashlin sat atop it with an expectant expression, Hati dozing at her feet.

Past the bed, the opposite wall faded into obscurity. The borders of the white tiles were blurred into a fuzzy haze that could be any shape at all. Pyrrha's eyes couldn't tell her what she should easily perceive. Yesterday she could see as well as she ought, and today she was nearsighted.

She slammed her palm into the mirror; it cracked to pieces under her hand. The twinge of nicked skin barely registered as she stared down into the sink, anger boiling hot in her belly. Her use of blood magic had robbed her of her sight. Her body was beginning to degrade, and the timeline was unprecedented; everything she'd read of other practicioners' experiences suggested it would take far longer than two scant years to see such deterioration.

Pyrrha had delved so deeply and intently she had outpaced her predecessors while making a fraction of their progress. She seethed in silence, watching her blood trickle little trails from her hand down into the drain. She summoned her wand from the floor and mended the cuts, and it clicked.

"You're saying Morrigan's powers are a product of blood magic?" Pyrrha said.

"Of course. Who else do we know besides her that can regenerate her body, or locate someone clear across the country?"

Pyrrha felt a sudden sweep of understanding, instantly assailed by contradictions. "Even I couldn't recover from having my skull blasted apart," she said, "and the tracking spell only functioned because Ashlin and I share blood . . . shared blood." The scar simmered with pain. "It wouldn't work on anyone else without assimilating their blood into my own. Morrigan never did that to me."

Ashlin moved without a sound to stand behind her, up on her tiptoes to peer over Pyrrha's shoulder into the shattered mirror's kaleidoscopic reflection, their gazes joined a dozen times over. "Are you certain?" she said. "Because the alternative is . . ."

"Fionn and her," Pyrrha finished, bewildered. "It's . . . it seems wrong. They were enemies, weren't they?"

"In the story," Ashlin said pointedly. "But we can't rely on stories. We need the truth."

Pyrrha realized her next course of action, and the thought of taking her first step to ending Morrigan was invigorating. To kill her, Pyrrha needed to know her, and there was one man most likely to have answers; the historian her father had primarily corresponded with in his research into the McCoul family line. Twyford Furnival had been all too happy to discuss anything remotely related to Ireland's magical history in his verbose replies to her father's letters. Pyrrha could reach him in an instant.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Ashlin said. "You've still only got one shoe on."

After cleaning herself up, Pyrrha stopped on her way to the door with a glare at the blurry wall tiles. She turned on her heel and beckoned with her wand at the broken mirror; the largest shard dislodged itself and floated before her. Under her direction it twisted and reshaped to form a pair of wire-rimmed glasses in front of her eyes, and she peered through them as she twitched and motioned subtly with her wand tip, adjusting the focus of each lens until she could once again see with flawless clarity. After imbuing them with a battery of protective enchantments she slipped the glasses on, giving the perfectly detailed wall pattern a satisfied nod on her way out.

With Hati trailing behind like a pale shadow, Pyrrha traveled the corridors to reach the Entrance Hall and relieved the suits of armor of their compulsion to guard, for the sake of the centaur. She ascended set after set of staircases up to the seventh floor, heading off heckling ghosts with a charm along the way. The castle's many arched windows allowed in the pallid light of breaking dawn as it seeped through a thick coat of clouds. Pyrrha didn't stop by Daisy's room; with her asleep, it was the best chance to slip away. She would understand, even if she didn't like it.

 _"Vicissitude,"_ Pyrrha said to the gargoyle. The statue hopped aside with a suspicious glance at her face, a look returned in kind by Hati as they passed.

Pyrrha ascended the rising staircase and stepped through the doors to a familiar scene; Daisy sat behind the desk, and over her the many Headmasters' portraits were in varying states of distress at their bonds, writhing against the ropes securing them to their chairs and grunting loud imprecations into their gags. Earmuffed and blindfolded in addition, they were each a picture of indignation with the exception of Albus Dumbledore, a mild smile on the old man's face while he twiddled his thumbs in his lap. His head bobbed slightly, side to side, as if to the tune of a song only he could hear.

Daisy stood from the Headmaster's high-backed chair with a victorious smile. "Going somewhere—glasses?" she said, triumph turning to confusion. "Since when do you need glasses?"

"Months ago," Pyrrha answered briskly. It was perfectly plausible, as it had been several months since last they met. "Consequence of aging. Yes, I'm going somewhere, and no, you can't join me. It's too dangerous."

The substantial threat of Morrigan aside, Pyrrha also had the Cabal to attend to. The Lodge was her only safe haven remaining. They'd had more than a day to prepare whatever defenses they could conceive of, and breaking them down would be no small task, not to forget the six themselves. With one mind versus several, Pyrrha couldn't spare a moment to plan and prepare; time was on the side of numbers, and the defenses of Hogwarts eroded with each passing moment. It was time to strike.

Daisy strode around the wide claw-footed desk to stop between Pyrrha and the fireplace, looking up at her with a stubborn expression. "Like I said before, it's not up to you. I won't let you do this alone—you can't. I love you both like family," she said, voice tinged with emotion. "I have as much right as you do to help stop this madwoman."

"And I love you, Daisy." The words rang hollow in Pyrrha's chest. "Which is why I can't allow this. Please, trust me to handle Morrigan. Step aside."

Daisy didn't move a muscle, her face a mask of determination failing to conceal the anxiety behind her eyes. "I can handle whatever comes. I haven't forgotten what you've taught me, not anything—I can be of use. I promise I'll—"

"I said no." Pyrrha steeled herself for what she had to do next as she stared into Daisy's hard brown eyes; Pyrrha inspected her thoughts and worries, picked out her insecurities and perused them until Daisy blinked, intrusive insights soundly muted.

"Did you just read me?" Daisy asked incredulously, a flush of anger already rising in her cheeks.

"I did, and it was pathetically easy." Pyrrha laced her tone with dismissive condescension, ignoring the painfully tight twist in her gut. "If it had been Morrigan, you'd be dead this instant. It doesn't matter what you think you can do—you can't. No extent of instruction from me will change the fact that you're a witch of average skill and limited potential. Your company would only be a detriment, a distraction, diverting my effort to protecting you. Effort better spent elsewhere."

Daisy had her hands clasped tight, shoulders set stiff against Pyrrha's barbs, unshed tears glimmering in the corners of her steely eyes; Pyrrha felt needling pain in her chest to see it, to have caused it yet again. Daisy didn't attempt to speak, her mouth set in a line rigid as her spine as she stared with something like disbelief.

"If you truly want to help, stay put and don't interfere," Pyrrha finished, stepping around Daisy to the fireplace. She didn't want to look at Daisy's distraught face any longer; the sooner Pyrrha was gone, the better. She could help sort out the situation with the Hogwarts staff after the Lodge was secured.

Pyrrha gestured at the fireplace with her wand, and a noise rent the air like a tear in space, the fire flaring a brilliant white before fading swiftly back to red. Her mind whirred as she flung ashen powder into the flames. The Cabal surely expected her to return at some point, and they wanted it that way, wanted her dead and gone; thus, it was unlikely they had severed or blocked the Floo connection, and conversely, a deadly reception was all but assured.

Hati's side butted against Pyrrha's leg as he leaned forward to sniff curiously at the emerald fire. She looked down at the wolf, his glossy coat a striking neon shade in the magical light flickering about. Even as it entered her mind, something in Pyrrha dismissed the idea of leaving him with Daisy; in her extended absence, there was no telling how Hati would behave. As much as he felt like a tentative companion, he was, first and foremost, a wild animal that wouldn't be tamed.

Pyrrha knelt down and whispered in Hati's ear: "We're going into the fire. It won't hurt. When we come out, be ready to fight, but only if we're attacked first."

Hati let out an eager growl deep in his chest. He stared into the fire with predatory focus, as if searching for a hint, a flash of what waited beyond.

Pyrrha stood and turned halfway round to find Daisy paused with one foot forward, stalled and unsure, her face a panoply of untraceable emotions. She completed the step, took a breath, and said, "Good luck, Pyrrha. Stay alive."

With a nod, Pyrrha turned and stepped into the fire's warm embrace, Hati following at her side. His head darted this way and that through flickering flames in apparent disbelief.

"I told you," Pyrrha said quietly. She seized a handful of Hati's fur, drew her wand and held it ready, and said clearly, "The Lodge—"

Something struck her back as brilliant green fire swallowed her whole.

* * *

Pyrrha woke with her face against the cold wood floor. As she regained her senses alarm shot through her, and she jolted upright, pushing to a stand; she bent back down to snatch up her fallen wand and took in the room.

It was empty. The common hall sat undisturbed by soul or spell, with cluttered rolls of parchment and precariously stacked books in more or less the same positions as last she'd been here, covering each and every available surface along the shelves and desks against the dark walls. The musty smell of aged parchment clung to the air, along with a faintly saccharine scent wafting from a pot under Byron's brewing table. Not even the fire behind her breached the silence wrapped around the room.

Under the glow of the fungi Pyrrha could make out her work space at a far corner, the desk still bearing materials for some of her less private side projects; her violin sat readily on its stand, the bow set aside just as she'd left it. Nearest her, the book on Maven's desk was open to the same astronomical chart marked with the same annotations. The distinct lack of anything out of place set Pyrrha on edge.

She turned to examine Hati, but he wasn't there.

Quickly cast revealing spells swept out and returned to her with nothing to show; no signs of life throughout the building, human or otherwise. Pyrrha probed at the room's enchanted trappings with the lightest touch, drawing gentle patterns in the air, deliberate outward motions reinforcing her inner calm. No curse tainted the room, no incited charm lingered in the air with a telltale trail. The wolf had vanished without a trace.

Without moving from the front of the fireplace Pyrrha examined the doors on either side of the room. Neither were open, nor did they bear even the smallest scratch across the wood. She turned about and plucked up the Floo jar, tossed in the powder, but the fire didn't react. She cast on it, coaxed at the network beyond the flames only to reach emptiness, as if the hearth before her was the only one to exist.

Pyrrha's mind tingled with excitement at the conundrum. With a jolt, she realized no signs of life meant Nona was gone, and her heart plummeted. How could the Cabal have circumvented the blood sanction on her private quarters?

"You know the answer."

Pyrrha turned to face a rotted figure sat in her place at the central table. All the more putrid in color under golden light, its decayed arms rested on the table's surface, shining hollow pits fixed on the familiar wand turning between its skeletal fingers. Her wand.

Pyrrha's dead reflection turned just far enough to meet her eyes. "Well?"

"What happened to Ashlin?" Pyrrha said, her wand trained on the wraith. The thought that she might be gone engendered a contradictory mix of feelings she didn't care to analyze.

A surge of pain in her head accompanied the response, and the world rippled like flowing water. "Not important." The thing's voice was low and soft, with an undertone of authority intrinsic to power. "Think instead on how you came to be here."

Pyrrha remembered stepping into the fire with Hati at her side, her hand buried in his fur, the better to ensure he didn't make an early exit. Something had impacted her back as they departed, and she had a fair idea what. Their brief trip through the network ended with Pyrrha lying on the floor alone. There was no memory of her initial arrival, which meant it had been taken from her, or it had been suppressed.

"If they'd had the opportunity to meddle in my memories directly . . ." Pyrrha began.

"They'd have used it to kill you, instead," the wraith confirmed. "Conclusion?"

Pyrrha felt the familiar thrill of a sudden spark of understanding. "I actified a charm, a trap that modified my memory and left me unconscious. Logically, the only reason I should wake is to have been roused by another. That I awoke on my own suggests it's by design, and that, in turn, suggests I pose no threat as I am now."

The corpse's voice took on a sour tone. "You're always a threat. What fool wouldn't keep you senseless, had they the chance?"

"Perhaps . . ." Pyrrha rounded the room in measured steps, running a hand along the walls, over the rough caps of glowing mushroom sprouts, across the spines of leatherbound books and over the dry pages open upon the tables. Everything felt the way it should, appeared as it ought, and it was all wrong. "Perhaps they mean to observe me," she whispered to herself. "They want me to reveal something."

Where the Cabal was involved, the possible motives were too numerous to bother pondering. Aradia's reason was as obvious as Wasila's wasn't, and though they two were the only ones Pyrrha was sure desired some secret knowledge of hers, it could be any of them. If she could narrow down her suspects . . .

"You're trapped," the corpse said, its hollow gaze following Pyrrha's meandering progress. "The architecture of your prison will show you the way."

It came to Pyrrha as she rounded the common hall a third time; the room and everything within harbored no secrets from her. She knew, without looking down, that she had just nudged Byron's pocket watch with her boot. She looked down to confirm her intuition; it lay forgotten where Wasila had carelessly knocked it from the table as Pyrrha had last departed the Lodge. It was not some facsimile she'd been placed in, no elaborate illusory cage.

Everything felt the same, down to the most minute details, because it was the same. The common hall stood precisely as she remembered it, and that's where she was; trapped within her own memory.

Like a flipped switch, the realization wiped the world away with a wide stroke of black, and Pyrrha opened her eyes. Hati's blooded muzzle filled her vision.

The missing memory returned in a stream—bursting through the fire, falling heavily to the floor under unknown weight, the charm swathing her bones in warmth and drawing her to slumber. She shifted as Hati licked at her forehead, propping up the weight across her back and dragging herself from under it, finally turning over freely to see Daisy asleep beside her. The stubborn woman brought no end of consternation.

Pyrrha stood, and her eyes were immediately drawn to a form on the floor at the foot of the call mirror. Irving lay in a puddle of blood, tangled grey mane soaked in red seeping from his open throat, savage wounds ripped across his torso. His glassy gaze met the ceiling with an aspect of peace scarcely seen in life.

The sight elicited a twinge of disappointment; Irving was the least likely to have had the nerve to follow through with Aradia's commands, especially given Daisy's presence as a bystander. Overlooked by the spell, Hati had reacted in the natural way of a wolf whose pack was in peril. Irving would never relive his precious memories, his life's work unfinished.

"At least now you've truly joined her," Pyrrha murmured as Hati stalked around the room on bloody paws, sniffing suspiciously at all in reach.

Working quickly, Pyrrha revived Daisy with a spell and swept the Lodge for life once again. One spark twinkled up in the third floor's west wing—Eilith's menagerie—and two more approached from the eastern hall. They would reach the common hall's righthand entry in moments. Pyrrha laid a curse on the door—it shivered—then turned to help Daisy from the floor, not bothering to hide her distress at her friend's recklessness.

"We'll discuss this later," Pyrrha said over Daisy's dazed questions. "Prepare to fight for your life. You—hide," she added to Hati. "Under the table until I call you." She didn't want to risk a preemptive attack from either side.

With a grudging huff, Hati crept behind the legs of the chairs under the central round table. Pyrrha turned from Daisy's expression of alarmed determination to face the eastern door, wand raised, as two sets of footsteps paused on the other side.

The door shot silently from its frame toward Pyrrha, curse and all; she flicked her wand and it swirled in the air to vanish like water down a drain. Maven stepped through the entry with an ironclad expression fixed on Pyrrha, her wand ready at her side. Behind her, a grinning Wasila emerged from the hall, stopping to lean on her shoulder against the doorway. She wore well-tanned skin and rich brown hair pulled into a braided ponytail, equally brown eyes glittering with excitement as they studied Pyrrha's face.

Maven's expression tightened as her eyes flicked to Irving's body and back to Pyrrha. "You are a craven and a murderer," she spat, voice trembling with outrage. "You'll find no refuge here. Leave now, or you invite more bloodshed."

"You would simply let me go?" Pyrrha asked, disbelieving. It would fly in the face of Aradia's instructions, not to mention her friend's death.

The old witch maintained her venomous stare without speaking, inviting Pyrrha to make a choice. Her jaw was set, posture stiff, as if braced for the inevitable.

"I suppose that must mean . . ." Pyrrha couldn't glean anything from the crone's mind, but she was nonetheless sure; Maven was holding herself in that way she'd always had when she knew something she shouldn't, and was about to watch it unfold. "You've forseen your death, in the event I choose to stay."

Maven's expression tightened further, but she didn't speak. It was as good as an affirmation.

"It doesn't have to come to that," Pyrrha said. She lowered her wand slowly, and could almost feel Daisy stiffen behind her. "I didn't return to hurt anyone. Irving . . ." Pyrrha restrained herself from glancing away to the body. "His death was an accident."

"You are a liar, as well," Maven said, voice brimming with disgust. "You will not leave, and I will not allow you to stay, to put our lives at risk to save your wretched hide from a fate well earned. I suppose it was an old fool's hope to think . . ." She trailed off, staring through Pyrrha with resignation. Something kindled in her, and she refocused on Pyrrha with seething intensity. "Yes, I've seen my death—that, and more. I've seen _your_ downfall, Pyrrha, inevitable as the sunset." Speaking it aloud seemed to give her immeasurable satisfaction. "You are powerless to stop what comes for you."

"Is that so?" Pyrrha's tone was level, fit for a talk over tea. "Enlighten me."

"What else but your own arrogance could overtake you? You know what's to come, but not how," Maven said, eyes burning with vindictive pleasure. "The Nightmare Queen—"

Maven stiffened, her eyes opening wide as she was outlined in a brilliant burst of green light; she collapsed to the sound of a howling rush of air, her skull striking the wood with a dull thud. The sound seemed to reverberate along Pyrrha's bones to leave them hollow.

Wasila slipped her wand back into her robes with a curious look at Maven's corpse.

Pyrrha stood stunned a moment, shock mixing with ire. "Why? I might have talked her down."

Wasila shook her head with a knowing look as she stepped over Maven and ambled into the room. "Trust me, she wouldn't be swayed. This was the only way," she said heavily, casting the body a regretful glance. "She would've killed you at the first opportunity."

"Where does this certainty come from?" Pyrrha demanded, fingers tight around her wand.

Wasila glanced at Daisy, who returned her look warily. "You're supposed to send the guinea pig first, you know," Wasila said. "Fortunate you brought a wolf along."

"She's not Imperiused. She followed me," Pyrrha said. "Answer my question."

"My certainty comes from common sense," Wasila said brusquely. "You unleashed Morrigan and murdered Irving, as she saw it."

Pyrrha's temper was straining. "If you'd allowed me the chance to explain—"

"It would've been a waste of breath with the same end result." Wasila beckoned at the round table; a newspaper, wizarding Ireland's Polaris Tribune, fluttered from its surface into her hand, and she held it out. "None of us are thrilled about this, either."

Pyrrha snatched it with her free hand and glanced at the headline: _FIENDFYRE RUNS RAMPANT ACROSS COUNTY LEITRIM, HUNDREDS KILLED._

Her stomach vanished. She forced herself not to look again in favor of keeping an eye on Wasila's wand hand. Daisy took in a sharp breath over her shoulder.

"Hati," Pyrrha called quietly. The wolf shoved his bulk between chairs to emerge from under the table and paced to her side with an irked look. "If this woman's hands move," she said, "please tear them off."

Hati's chest rumbled, gleaming eyes locked on Wasila, who merely raised an eyebrow. "That's gratitude for you," she said.

Pyrrha opened the newspaper, a grim picture unfolding to dominate the front page: a desolate swath of land stretched far back as the eye could see, the rolling countryside reduced to charred black earth clear of even the smallest anomaly; nothing remained behind, not a single burned splinter nor even a dusting of ash. Smoke clung low to the air in oily coils, obscuring all in an undulating film of inky fog; it spiraled up and fed into the thick shroud of charcoal-grey smog that hung between sky and earth as a smothering membrane suppressing the questing sunlight. The righthand side of the frame showed a glimpse of what were once houses which sat at the edge of the devastation, melted and warped with blistering heat until they were nearly unrecognizable.

Below the picture was a caption: _The fire's aftermath, western end of the muggle village of Kinlough._

Pyrrha was numb, buzzing with a detached sort of horror as she dragged her eyes from the scene to the article, a tremor in her hands as she tilted the page. Daisy stepped beside her to read along, placing a hand on Pyrrha's shoulder.

 _Ireland's Department of Magical Disasters calls on ICW aid for the worst emergency in over two decades._

 _Norman Bly, Polaris Tribune senior correspondent._

 _A raging inferno of dark magic ravaged an expanse of land sixty square miles across early this morning. Authorities on scene positively identified the magic at work as the Fiendfyre Curse, a spell infamous for its peerless destructive prowess and nigh-unstoppable drive to spread and consume. The blaze swept through County Leitrim's northern forests and spilled over the unsuspecting township of Kinlough before the combined efforts of the entirety of the Department of Magical Disasters, several dozen Ministry volunteers, and three ICW Magical Containment and Control task forces managed to rein in the flames._

 _Along with approximately thirty thousand acres of sparsely-inhabited hills and woodlands, the fire obliterated an estimated forty percent of Kinlough's infrastructure, claiming hundreds of lives in the process. DMD Department Head Evelyn O'Connell has neglected to comment on the status of her staff in the immediate aftermath. As yet, the final death toll is unknown, and, says one David Whitfield of the DMD, unknown is how it's likely to stay._

 _"It's pure annihilation, just [expletive] evil," Whitfield said. "Not nearly so tame as any old fire. This spell leaves absolutely nothing behind, not one damned thing. No remains to identify or bury. Nothing. Whoever did this," he adds, "if they're not dead already, the [expletive] DMJ best find them and make them wish they were!"_

 _According to Department of Magical Justice Head Howard MacLeod, an investigation is already well underway. "We've ascertained the general location of the curse's epicenter," he confirmed, nearly four hours after the conflagration had been suppressed. "The nearest magical household by several miles was owned by a witch name of Pyrrha Clay, who lived there with her sixteen-year-old sister, Ashlin Clay. Neither of them have been seen since the fire. I encourage anyone with information as to their condition or whereabouts to come forward immediately."_

 _Turn to page three for an exclusive interview with Cesaro Romo, Director of the ICW's Agency for Magical Containment and Control, European Division._

Pyrrha handed the paper to Daisy, her mouth gone dry. Her last, desperate attack had claimed innocent lives, lives she'd confronted Morrigan to protect. She longed to wake from this unending nightmare where everything she reached for turned to dust.

Wasila studied her with an even look, her arms held carefully still at her sides as Hati watched her in turn. "Eilith is all too eager to carry out your sentence," she said after a minute. "I'll just pause a moment to let that particular shock sink in."

"It wasn't Pyrrha's fault," Daisy said suddenly, tossing the paper away. "Morrigan cast that curse."

Wasila considered Daisy with the same placid expression that gave no hint to her belief. "It doesn't matter in the end," she said. "Pyrrha released her; Morrigan's actions are on her shoulders just the same as if she'd done the deed herself. Making the front page isn't exactly ideal for us, either."

Daisy peered around the common hall again, her eyes lingering on the meeting table. "Who is 'us'? What is this place?" She directed the questions at Pyrrha.

Pyrrha didn't have the words, and she couldn't use them if she did; the Unbreakable Vow saw to that. Aradia had entreated them all to swear never to reveal the Cabal's secrets. That Daisy had forced her way through the Floo rather than been invited, or even passively allowed, was the only reason Pyrrha wasn't dead. How would Daisy react, she wondered, if she could confess to her about their collective of like-minded criminals performing hazardous and highly illegal magical experiments?

After a few beats of silence, Wasila said, "So, what's the plan? Why did you come back?"

"Where are Aradia and Byron?" Pyrrha said. "Are they likely to return soon?"

"Doubtful. You just missed them, actually; they left perhaps half an hour ago, gone to the residence of that historian of yours. Furnival?"

Pyrrha's heart lurched. "Why?"

Wasila's familiar wide smile slid back into place. "Why else? Aradia wants to know what makes the mad witch tick, find a way to get rid of her. She dragged Byron along—something about 'defensive preparations'. They're sure to have a rousing welcome prepared for you."

Urgency and frustration bubbled in Pyrrha's brain, and she let out a sharp breath. Eilith had to be dealt with before she could chase after Aradia and Furnival; that the Lodge remained an accessible refuge was of paramount importance. She couldn't fathom the enigmatic shifter's part in events unfolding; Wasila looked back with a sharp-eyed gaze that gave away nothing but lively anticipation.

Wasila liked to refer to herself as the Cabal's 'requisition specialist'. It was essentially true; she had, time and again, proven herself more than capable of acquiring anything the Cabal might need, from the rarest of Class A Non-Tradeable Materials to highly sensitive Ministry documents to vast sums of ill-gotten gold, and everything in between. Her unwavering skill as a thief and confidence artist continued to astound Europe's magical authorities and the Cabal alike.

It had been she who'd brought Pyrrha to Aradia's attention and secured her place in the Cabal two years ago, shortly after her parents' deaths. Since the beginning she'd endeavored to ingratiate herself with Pyrrha, exceedingly friendly and helpful despite Pyrrha's pronounced lack of interest. Her demeanor had made it clear she dearly desired something in return for her attentions—dearly enough to set off mental alarm bells.

Pyrrha had consistently refused to accrue any sort of debt with Wasila—debts among the Cabal were always honored—but she suspected the situation was about to change, at last.

"Why are you helping me?" Pyrrha asked finally. It was a question that reached all the way back to their first meeting, and the tone made it clear.

Wasila's grin stretched a little, sharklike, though her eyes glittered with life. "It's not enough you're our best chance to put an end to that undead monstrosity?"

"We need to get to the historian," Daisy broke in, wringing her hands. "What if they hurt him?"

Wasila shook her head. "They need him. He knows about Morrigan, and he serves as bait for this one," she said with a nod at Pyrrha.

"You're certain Aradia still wants me killed?" Pyrrha said.

"Dead."

"Why wasn't it more difficult to get here, then?"

"I managed to talk Irving and Maven into dismantling their traps in favor of capturing you for information," Wasila said with a self-satisfied smile. "Eilith went to pout in her room."

"Getting in here wasn't exactly a cakewalk," Daisy said with a worried, reproachful look at Pyrrha. "What would you have done without Hati? We were knocked right out."

Pyrrha gave her an irked look, and she wilted a little. "I would've countered the charm, were I not preoccupied being tackled to the floor. Give us a moment," she added to Wasila at the witch's light laugh.

Hati's gleaming eyes followed Wasila's every move as she winked and stepped past them without a sound, disappearing beyond the door to the western hall.

Daisy let her hands drop to her sides with a resolute expression as Pyrrha considered her. There were two roads before them, and Pyrrha hated them both. She could force Daisy back through the Floo and seal it behind her, ensuring her safety and dissolving their friendship. The idea made Pyrrha faintly sick; Daisy was the only person she had left in the world whom she cared for, and cared for her in turn.

In the other direction, Daisy could join in containing the disaster Pyrrha had catalyzed. Their bond would endure at the risk of Daisy's life and sanity. It was a choice soaked in selfishness.

"Will you consider going back willingly?" Pyrrha asked quietly.

Eyes bright and hard as diamond, Daisy pressed her lips into a thin line. "I won't."

The chasm in Pyrrha's chest ached as she raised her wand.


	9. Chapter 9

Daisy struggled ineffectually in the chair, tugging against the ropes wrapped tight around her torso. "Is this really necessary?" she asked, agitated.

"I'm afraid so," Pyrrha said. To allow Daisy to roam the Lodge unchecked would violate the terms of the Vow.

They sat across from one another by the fireplace, suffused with the soft golden light of the fungi sprouting all across the walls. With a quick look around, Pyrrha saw that the Cabal had spirited away anything of value from the common hall, leaving it a barren collection of purposeless furniture. The sole exception occupied Eilith's desk in the form of a pile of splinters and bits of string that had once been Pyrrha's violin.

The bodies of Irving and Maven lay peacefully atop the meeting table, the former cleansed of blood. A black shroud enveloped them. The sight of their motionless outlines elicited a twinge of something untraceable; abrasive as Maven had been, she hadn't deserved to die. Neither of them had.

Pyrrha returned her gaze to Daisy, and they held it between them for a while without a word. The weight of Pyrrha's decision hung in the air over them like a guillotine suspended by fraying rope; to allow Daisy into her world was a terrible risk, and she had taken it for both of them.

 _"Self-interest always wins out,"_ Ashlin said. The burn ignited. _"For all your posturing, you're just as pathetic as the rest."_

Hati made soft snuffling sounds into the silence as he licked his paws clean of blood. The smell of it haunted the air. It seemed to cling to Pyrrha wherever she went, whatever her intent, naturally as a shadow.

Pyrrha gathered herself and refocused on Daisy, who looked back with concern, a small absurdity in her helpless state. "I—what I said in the Head's office . . ." Pyrrha's insides squirmed with guilt at the memory of Daisy's distraught face.

"It hurt," Daisy said. The matter-of-fact admission struck a dull blow. "I knew you didn't really mean it, but it hurt anyway, until I realized what you were trying to do." Her expression was one of steely determination. "I won't be pushed out and ignored any longer, alright? I don't know what all this is about, but it doesn't matter, because I know you. I'm with you, whatever happens."

"Why?" The question slipped out and carried all her uncertainty into the open.

Daisy's eyes shined with unexpected mirth. "Would you do the same for me?"

"Yes."

"Then why ask such a silly question?"

Pyrrha had no answer, no words to articulate what their friendship was worth to her. She nodded once, gratefully, and pressed down on the odd feeling in her chest, standing and drawing her wand. "I'll return shortly. Stay with her, please," she added to Hati, who grumbled in grudging assent. After a grateful pat on his head, she turned away to make for the western hall.

Daisy heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I'll be here," she said wryly after Pyrrha as the door closed.

The hallway beyond bore little resemblance to any typical corridor. It had subtly ribbed walls and ceiling curving to form a vaguely ovoid series of archways in gradient shades of deep blues and purples, all traced through with dark green veins; Pyrrha sometimes felt as though she were traveling through the enlarged blood vessel of some alien creature. At near-even intervals the gently curving path sprouted clusters of the same luminous fungi from the dry, spongy surfaces of the tunnel. As she stalked down the hall, the faint yet ever-present scent of the place permeated the air and brushed over her. It was nothing she'd ever encountered elsewhere; not exactly unpleasant, it smelled in the way she imagined a subterranean lake would.

Rounding the edge of the curve, the end of the hall came into sight, and Wasila with it. She stood with arms crossed before the threshold to the Lodge's antechamber, glancing over her shoulder with a sly smile as Pyrrha drew level with her. "That was a rather lengthy farewell. Had a bit more than stern words for her, perchance? She is rather fetching."

"Would that you were amusing as you think you are," Pyrrha said. "In fact, she'll be accompanying me, so mind what you say within earshot until I attend to Aradia." Her tone allowed no room for disagreement.

Wasila only made a vaguely intrigued noise by way of reply as she returned her eyes to the antechamber, and Pyrrha followed suit. It was a vast, circular space spanning a formidable width, and the towerlike surrounding wall rose several times higher to end in a deep black void twinkling with stars shining white amidst the clearest of night skies. The charm was a deviation of the one upon the Great Hall at Hogwarts, spelled to display the heavenly bodies no matter the time or weather.

The cylindrical wall swirled with the same dark and dreamy tones as the tunnel behind them, creating a mesmerizing effect around the chamber in the same way murky colors shifted behind closed eyelids in a dimly lit room. The wall was ringed with wide and flat protuberances that grew out smoothly to form landing platforms for each of the Lodge's three floors, accessible by the spiraling crystal staircase rising from the center of the space. Countless mushroom sprouts poked in all around the room, ranging in size from a nose to an entire head, and they cast their golden glow over everything to consummate the chamber's otherworldly atmosphere.

The fungi shined both bright and gentle to the eye as they illuminated the eclectic assortment of pilfered trophies Wasila had mounted along the wall. There were several rare paintings, metalworks, and tapestries from the family homes of the wealthy and well-bred, including an original Vefari weaving; over the entrance archway hung the enormous, pearly head of a famed dragon, the brief and wildly popular main attraction of the Circus Arcanus; the framed deed to a sizable tract of private land in the heart of wizarding Corsica, commended to one of Wasila's many aliases; even a pair of lacy white knickers graced the wall, reputed to have belonged to the daughter of magical Spain's prime minister.

"So," Wasila said thoughtfully as her eyes roved the room. "What's wrong with this picture?"

Pyrrha drew her wand and cast over the chamber with slow and careful strokes, her other hand held out to caress the air that slid between her fingers carrying arcane traces on its back. Under every spell at her disposal the secrets of the room were spilled over her, the enchantments melded to the Lodge, the charms that bound disparate elements together. As inside the common hall, the examen unveiled no perilous spells waiting in the wings.

She lowered her arms at last. "Nothing hazardous to be found." A hum of assent told her Wasila had already gathered much the same, and remained unsatisfied. "It's not unthinkable. You said the others had agreed to attempt to capture me alive."

"Eilith didn't," Wasila said. "She pretended to, but she didn't. She's clinging to this opportunity with everything she's got. Why is it you inspire such strong feelings?"

Eilith had made her sentiments clear ever since Pyrrha had joined the Cabal, and they had avoided one another since then whenever possible. Pyrrha had scarcely interacted with any of them, in fact, with the exception of Aradia, whose ambitions were tightly twined with her own.

Pyrrha sighed. "I don't know. We were in the same year at Hogwarts, but different houses. We never spoke. I knocked her out of the annual dueling tournament in our seventh year, but I can't imagine even she could stretch a petty grudge so far."

"A tournament? With spectators? Sounds like the last thing you'd ever bother with."

"Daisy twisted my arm." It had seemed important to her, one final attempt at socializing Pyrrha, she thought. She looked the vast room over again. "I haven't seen or felt anything. Are you certain of her intentions?"

"I know people." Wasila's tone gave away the smallest hint of disgust. "She wouldn't be Eilith if she didn't lay a few traps in your way. It could be . . ." She made a vague gesture with her wand and eyed the room, then lowered her arm with a frown. "No, not a single living creature."

A disquieting thought occurred to Pyrrha. "I don't suppose there could be an unliving creature?"

"What, like inferi? You'd know more about that than I would," Wasila said with an unreadable glance. She tilted her chin at the room. "Either there's nothing to find, or we can't find it. Let's proceed as if dear Rosier is a credible threat and hope for validation." Pyrrha shot her a questioning glance, and she smiled. "For our suspenseful stroll to end safely would be terribly boring, wouldn't you say?"

Pyrrha gave a noncommittal hum and led the way with her wand half-raised, pacing slow steps that echoed off the dark wood floor. They stopped by the staircase at the center of the room, and she walked a slow circle around to see everything sitting just as it had been, the air thick with tomblike silence. She met Wasila at the base of the stairs as the witch completed a spell.

"Nothing new," Wasila said at the querying look. "Up we go."

Pyrrha took the lead with a carefully neutral expression, suppressing the thrill of fear in her stomach as they mounted the stairs. She kept her eyes on her boots upon the translucent crystal that glittered with refracted light. The stairs were uniform, and the railing was not, as if the crystal pillar had spiraled from the ground like a vine twining round a fence post and had steps carved from it. In her mind's spiteful eye Pyrrha tipped over the railing and smashed her head against the ground, slipped backward past Wasila to snap her neck upon the steps.

Against all reason, facing her fear of heights never came any easier, no matter how often the occasion called for it. As they passed the first floor Pyrrha could feel the sweat beginning to pool on her skin, her heart laboring with the effort of a dozen flights of steps rather than one. Tingly numbness brushed up her fingers. All too slowly they reached the second floor, the midpoint, and Pyrrha failed to eliminate the ominous images besieging her as they advanced.

Halfway to the third floor the room was plunged into darkness. Pyrrha froze along with her pulse as her anxiety multiplied, and she clutched the railing like a lifeline as hoarse, rapid babbling sounded from a hundred surrounding mouths. Under sparse starlight the barest outlines of fuzzy shapes shifted along the walls.

Wasila's robes rustled as she moved, and the chamber was thrown back into harsh illumination, sourceless and pale, lending the creatures crawling up the wall a flat, two-dimensional appearance. The luminescent mushrooms hadn't gone out—they'd shifted to become head-sized beings with wild brown fur and four pallid, hairless limbs long and thin; they skittered up the wall and pounced across the room in a perpetual wave to clasp at the sheer edges of the staircase overhead.

"Yours above, mine below," Wasila said calmly, and Pyrrha made the mistake of peering over the railing to see a tide of creatures flowing down around the wall and over the floor, scuttling on clawed feet to meet the base of the stairs a thousand miles beneath. Her head swam as she pulled it back against the insistent tug of gravity.

Intense heat flashed across her skull, jolting her into alertness. _"I won't let you fall,"_ Ashlin said softly. _"Kill them."_

Deep and swift grinding noises came up from below as Pyrrha raised her wand aloft to meet the swarm descending on her, each of them jibbering like manic children with throats burned raw, their beady black eyes deep-set and glinting with hunger, too-wide mouths baring rings of needle-thin teeth.

She swept her wand in a slow arc as if casting a fragile bubble into the air, and a wide ripple tinged with red drifted up and around the staircase, through the sinking swarm like an insubstantial swell of water. The curse carved a low howl across air akin to a wolf-mother's lament; as the spell spread through them the chattering masses melted into nothing, swirled out of being like smudges of mud washed away by rain.

From below came a variety of violent sounds; calamitous crashing, low swoops of large unknowns rushing through air, and the neat, wet crunches of many somethings being bludgeoned. There was no time to see—at the deaths of their kin the creatures that still clung to the walls uttered a deep yowl as one, and they hurled themselves from where they hung level with Pyrrha to scramble madly over the railings beside her.

She drew her wand up herself with a flourish; the crystal at her feet flowed up and across her form to encase her like an exoskeleton. Through a vitreous mask she watched the creatures scrabble onto the staircase and rake at her with wicked claws, and she felt nothing as their frenzied assault slid away with noisy scrapes, futile as knives against compact ice. They clambered over her, teeth questing for flesh, and she gestured with an armored arm, heedless of the beasts clinging there; her crystal shell erupted with dozens of pointed protrusions in every direction, impaling the monsters and retracting again just as quickly. They dropped off and tumbled lifelessly down the steps.

An expansive motion saw the stragglers lifted away from the staircase in the wake of a fleeting shockwave, and they floated out over the room as if adrift in deep space, thrashing and burbling with impotent rage. Pyrrha made a sharp gesture; the crystal encasing her shot away in a barrage of spines to spear the drifting beasts precisely, nailing their bodies all across the wall with a battery of solid _thunks._ With a glance behind her to ensure her spell had effected the same there, she turned her wand to the stairs below as she ventured back down to Wasila, who met her coming up.

Wasila grinned up at Pyrrha, none the worse for wear. "Well, that was quite the surprise, wasn't it? I do wonder how Eilith managed to maintain such a convincing thick-witted facade after all this time," she said, sounding delighted. She twirled her wand; the sourceless light throughout the room coalesced into a radiant orb bobbing in the center of the chamber, casting a more natural light on their surroundings.

"Self-transfiguring creatures," Pyrrha murmured in agreement, turning to resume the ascent. Eilith had created beasts with the capacity to shapeshift, masking them from life-seeking spells while creating an effective ambush. Pyrrha found herself with newborn respect for Eilith's cunning.

The shot of adrenaline afforded to Pyrrha sustained her focused state of mind as they climbed to the third floor. She picked her way over countless furry bodies with eyes fixed firmly down, only a portion of her concentration dwelling on her distance from the ground as she considered what else might await them. The truth of it was that it was impossible to predict; magic carried endless potential, and Pyrrha didn't know Eilith well enough to extrapolate the ways she might use it against them.

At long last Pyrrha surmounted the final step, and she raised her eyes first to the broad crystal disk she stood upon, then to the rest of their surroundings. A flowing balustrade encircled the platform, so low as to be more decorative than protective. The fathomless black ceiling was near enough she imagined she could feel the chill of space settling over her, stars twinkling in the visible spectrum's every shade like immortal fireworks caught within a wrinkle in time. Careful not to let her eyes wander over the platform's edge, she peered down each elegant bridge that extended out to meet their respective landings, one for the east and one for the west.

Wasila cleared her throat from behind Pyrrha, and Pyrrha stepped carefully out of the way to claim the center of the disk. Wasila flashed a wide smile and glanced past her to Maven's door at the eastern landing, a thoughtful look crossing her face for a moment, and she turned about to match Pyrrha in contemplating the western bridge.

"I don't imagine she'd miss such an obvious placement for some trick or other," Wasila said as Pyrrha began surveying the walkway with careful sweeps of her wand. "Suppose we conjure another bridge?" Her voice carried unnaturally far, reverberating off the rounded wall to flutter down throughout the Lodge's heart.

The evaluation complete, Pyrrha shook her head. "It'll take the shape of a large serpent and strike when we attempt to cross, whatever the manner."

Wasila hummed. "Rather tame."

"It'll become a cloud of highly poisonous dust upon destruction."

"Ah, that's more like it," Wasila said, sounding somehow entertained. "What do you propose?"

Pyrrha took a few careful steps closer, the platform's edges ever-present in the back of her mind. "I can dismantle the spellwork . . . or is that solution too dull?" she added at Wasila's disappointed noise.

"Can't have it all," Wasila said with a shrug. "Have at it."

Pyrrha drew a pattern in the air ending with an extended outward flourish; a thin trail of violet light followed the arc like a cast fishing line, and it detatched from her wand tip to settle its glimmering length along the surface of the bridge. "What is it you want from me?" Pyrrha asked abruptly as she coaxed the charm to sink into the crystalline walkway.

"Do I take that to mean my assistance merits recompense?" Wasila's voice was level, as if she didn't really care either way.

Much as Pyrrha didn't want to admit it, she owed Wasila. Not only had she sided against Aradia—for the moment, at least—she'd passed on a vital piece of information in Aradia and Byron's current intentions and location, and she'd orchestrated the undoing of Maven and Irving's more deadly defenses. In a way, having brought Pyrrha into the Cabal's fold, Wasila was the reason for her vital partnership with Aradia: the reason her hopes hadn't perished with her family. The time had finally come for Pyrrha to give in. The thought formed an anxious knot in her gut.

"Yes . . . you'll have your favor," Pyrrha said heavily. Under her wand the thin streak of violet light had sunk into the walkway and split into dozens of winding offshoots, like a system of roots with no base of life to bolster. The translucent bridge's rich purple glow gave Wasila's face an eerie cast as she revealed the toothy smile always waiting underneath.

"I've waited two years to hear those words," Wasila said calmly. "I gather you knew that much already. Tell me, what makes you so sure you'll regret granting my request?"

The winding lines of violet light had bled out to suffuse the bridge in its entirety, and it faded as Pyrrha looked on, sapping the imbued poison along with it. She wouldn't say the truth, that Wasila's subtle yet undeniable yearning had unnerved her from the start.

 _"What does it matter anymore? There are greater things at work,"_ Ashlin said impatiently. _"Better she's an ally than a hindrance."_

Pyrrha sighed, resigned. She twirled her wand; the bridge seemed to twist into itself like a towel being wrung dry, and it kept twisting tighter and tighter until it vanished from sight. At a quick motion the bridge reappeared abruptly, unspooling from empty air, expanding to slide into place as if it had never gone. The animation spell had been nullified.

"It's safe to cross, now." Pyrrha dragged her eyes from the bridge to meet Wasila's, watching her intently. They stood in silence for a few breaths. "Tell me what you want," Pyrrha prompted.

Wasila hesitated. "Information."

Pyrrha made an impatient noise. "Don't be coy, I've already consented. Stop wasting time and ask."

Wasila's eyes flashed with excitement. "Alright, then. My pleasure." She took a few sauntering steps forward until they were an arm's length apart, her expression unreadable under the muted starlight. "Two years ago," she said, "your parents died traveling by international portkey."

Whatever Pyrrha had expected to hear, it wasn't that, but fury swiftly overrode her astonishment. "Make your point _very_ concisely," she whispered.

Wasila gave no sign of having heard her. "Shortly afterward, the man responsible for the faulty portkey's creation was tried and summarily acquitted, cited reason being a lack of evidence that he was the one to botch the spell."

Rage boiled in Pyrrha at the memories dredged up. There had been a surfeit of proof for anyone who cared to search, but it had been buried, obfuscated. The man—his name wasn't worth remembering—had been well-connected within the Tribunal's hierarchy, his mediocre profession a mark of shiftlessness, incompetence, or both. He'd been shuffled along without a care, returned to his worthless existence as if nothing had ever happened.

"And then, some time later . . ." Wasila continued, and Pyrrha knew what she wanted, at last. "The man checked himself into Slanewell. He'd lost the ability to cast magic. Even with consultation from the likes of St. Mungo's and Ghanta Oma, there was nothing anyone could do for him."

Pyrrha cleansed her mind of tumultuous emotion with even breaths. Wasila might have hoped to throw Pyrrha off balance, capture a glimpse of something in her gaze, but she wouldn't be manipulated. She met the witch's eyes with her own blank stare, awaiting the inevitable request.

"You made the man a squib," Wasila said, eyes glittering with feverish intensity. "I want to know how."

At once a light shined on Wasila's behavior, and Pyrrha reeled a little to know someone else harbored the same heart-crushing hatred as she, hatred that death wouldn't sate. "Who?" Pyrrha asked quietly.

"That's my business," Wasila said with a humorless smile. "Will you honor your word?"

Pyrrha would be a hypocrite to stand in the way of drawn-out revenge on principle, but the knowledge Wasila sought was an extraordinarily dangerous tool, especially in the hands of one so adept at guile as to weave through the most exclusive webs of influence with nary a thread left behind; almost no one was outside of her reach. The possible ramifications were as diverse as they were unknowable.

Wasila now had the upper hand in their dynamic with Daisy's entrance. Anyone Pyrrha cared for was a weakness ripe for exploitation, and she could no longer pretend they were merely school acquaintances who had long since drifted apart. If she refused Wasila, Daisy would become a target.

 _"Yes, and recent events have proven you incapable of protecting your own face, let alone someone else's life,"_ Ashlin said. _"Her favor is more valuable than the wellbeing of any stranger."_

Pyrrha turned away to face the bridge again, stepping to the start with a lurch in her stomach. "I will," she said eventually. "But not until I've seen to Morrigan. The time it would take to instruct you is time I can't spare." She stalked across the walkway with measured strides, boots clicking against the crystal, her eyes fixed down on the next step in front of her. She reached the landing swiftly, yet still with ample time for her heart to palpitate erratically in her throat.

Wasila moved silently around her, a more genuine smile lighting her face. "I can wait a while longer. Thank you, Pyrrha."

Pyrrha nodded. "You have my thanks, as well. I assume you'll be making your own way from here?"

Wasila's smile shifted seamlessly into her familiar Cheshire cat grin. "And leave you all by your lonesome to contend with the likes of Morrigan? Never!"

"Ah," Pyrrha said. "Protecting your interests, I see. I'm surprised you haven't yet attempted to wrest the knowledge from me."

"I might have done, if I were positive I'd survive the experience," Wasila said with a wink. "Besides, you know what they say about revenge." Despite her playful tone, Pyrrha knew she was quite serious, and she shared the sentiment; if Wasila's head contained the knowledge she needed now, she'd have no compunctions with cracking it open.

They turned to face Eilith's landing. Left of the door was a modest garden composed of various magical plants Eilith utilized in the rearing of her creatures; among other oddities there were whispering vines rustling against the wall, several sprouts of the blue-leafed Hand of Bonenfont reaching blindly for their neighbors, and near a dozen merrily trilling flowers Pyrrha didn't recognize, their petals fluttering like phoenix feathers as they flew up to swap stems at regular intervals.

On the right was a small, placid pond surrounded by gently swirling sand, the mark of dune sliders cavorting beneath the surface. Shoots of bone-white reeds and gently whipping cattails rose from one end of the pool, a swarm of dragonflies flittering among them, their unusually wide and froglike mouths gaping soundlessly. Atop the nearest side spun a dozen lily pads like musical records, somehow leaving the water's surface undisturbed. Several dim lights bobbed around beneath. Pyrrha wasn't curious enough to approach for a peek.

"My turn, I suppose?" Wasila said, and she waved her wand across the landing with several careful gestures. She raised an eyebrow as she ended the search. "Nothing to worry about here, so long as we don't touch the water."

As Wasila advanced to the door, Pyrrha aimed her wand to probe at the pool curiously; it held a curse that would pull in and smother anything that broke the surface tension, likely to become food for whatever lurked beneath. She ignored the small chill down her neck and moved on ahead.

The heavy wooden door was reminiscent of Hogwarts. Wasila hummed a tune to herself as she ran her wand over the aged wood, then brushed her fingers down the same spot. She stopped humming to give a low whistle. "That's a nasty one," she said. "It'd have your brain pouring from every hole in your head—suppose that's why it's safe for Rosier. One moment . . ." She performed a quick maneuver; the door rattled as if struck by a battering ram as a discordant _clang_ rang out. "There we are. Next stop, Eilith's quarters." Her expression soured. "Words I hope never to speak again."

They stepped through the door with raised wands, Pyrrha in the lead. It led to a stone anteroom that could've been carved out from inside Hogwarts and resettled within the Lodge; iron braziers lit the space from rounded alcoves in the corners of the stone-block room, and a glossy obsidian statue of a bald and blank-faced wizard stood like a sentinel in the center. Each featureless wall bore a door like the one behind them, and before they could take any action, the statue lifted one polished arm to point at the righthand door. It stood ajar.

Pyrrha swept the room for hostile charms and curses with deft waves of her wand, unveiling nothing that warranted attention. She cast the spells for life detection, and one human spark glittered from deep within the righthand chamber, faint with distance. All combined, hundreds of bestial lights shined inside each room ahead, and further sparks twinkling behind the anteroom's ceiling made Pyrrha's heart skip; the life forms grew swiftly larger as they closed in from above.

She barely got out a warning as the creatures came sailing in; they passed through the stonework soundless as ghosts, dark green and oblong blurs too quick to see as they sought her only to be swatted from the air at wandpoint. The creatures sank away through the stone floor as if it were water and reemerged in soaring arcs, fleshy missiles with stingers sticking from their round mouths.

Wasila stepped neatly aside as she vaporized five with a flick and a flash; Pyrrha batted aside seven, six, and four more with three swipes, then performed two quick flicks and a whirl of her wand; the room turned on its head as down became up, and the creatures fell upward to rain through the ceiling as the obsidian statue crashed after them headfirst with a resounding clamor, somehow remaining intact when it clattered to the stone. Pyrrha had anchored herself and Wasila to the floor; she glanced over at Wasila, who flourished her wand while holding her robes down with her free hand.

"They're coming back," she said, flashing a carefree smile. "Must be for the company."

"I'll alter the pitch of the charm as they approach," Pyrrha said. Her heart was hammering at hanging from a drop headfirst, nothing between her and death but her own split-second spellwork. Her head swam with the blood rushing from her numbing fingers.

The monsters cascaded up from beyond the ceiling in a silent wave, a volley of living projectiles; at a twist of Pyrrha's wand the room tilted sideways, and the lefthand wall became the floor; the creatures veered off course at gravity's pull, and Pyrrha destroyed a dozen of them in a wave of light, another cluster becoming a flutter of butterflies by Wasila's wand. The remaining monsters sailed past them to plunge cleanly through the stonework once again, and the statue tumbled haplessly along after them, each strike on stone a deep, grating clack. Pyrrha followed the beasts' progress with the life-seeking spell; they seemed to glide effortlessly through solid matter, by contrast rudderless in open space.

The collective turned beneath them, racing up along the inside of the floor-turned-wall they were fixed to. Wasila uttered an excited laugh. "They're catching on—coming straight from our feet!"

Pyrrha's heart rattled in protest as she tilted the room until they hung upside down once again. "Catch yourself!" she said as she released the charms holding them steady; panic squeezed her chest as the floor flew up to meet her falling head, and she cast at the last moment, her body turning in midair to alight feet-first in a landing soft as a step down stairs. A resounding _boom_ marked the statue's collision nearby.

It had been far too close; she'd nearly died, she thought, a bizarre sensation of retroactive terror choking her chest like thick and sickly smoke. Her vision flickered, and she staggered a moment until something knocked her roughly aside; she struck the wall on her elbow, pain flaring as it broke with a swift series of clicks. Her pulse pounded as she fought her irrational mind for control.

A painful surge of heat stroked her skull as she looked up at Wasila, who had the remaining creatures trapped overhead within a charm resembling transparent gelatin; the air seemed to wobble around them as they wriggled helplessly in place. Wasila gave Pyrrha a wink as she stood, and Pyrrha swapped her wand to her left hand to cast out, confirming they had caught the last of the beasts. Adrenaline began to ebb while she drew deep breaths, and she looked the creatures over.

They resembled nothing so much as giant leeches. Each were slimy and greenish black with round mouths ringed with short, serrated teeth. Their bodies were of a size with a large breed of dog, and their shapeless forms rippled with subtle undulations, giving them the illusion of dwelling within shifting waters. A number of them had proboscides protruding from their throats, and the stingers glistened with clear fluid in the low light from the burning braziers; the flames still flickered down toward the ceiling as if they hadn't been upended.

"Revolting things," Wasila summarized, squinting up at the beasts. "Remarkable and revolting. It's as if they have no physical presence, but at the same time . . ." She beckoned; one of the leeches dislodged from the charm to float down toward her. She ran her wand up and down the creature's struggling body.

Pyrrha whirled her wand at her broken elbow; it mended itself with a dull crackling and a flash of pain. "Did you shove me aside?" she asked, taking her wand into her dominant hand again.

"No, it was Danforth over there," Wasila said with a tilt of her head toward the fallen statue, her eyes still fixed to the leech. "You appeared to be having a spate of dizziness or somesuch. Sorry; didn't want to miss one and have it land on you."

"The thought is appreciated, but I was fine," Pyrrha said stiffly. "I'd have recovered faster without being bowled over. You don't need my gratitude or my debt any longer, so don't do anything like that from here on."

Wasila gave her a faintly incredulous glance. "My apologies—I hadn't realized your skull was thick enough to withstand a massive mouth-spike. On the bright side, I did at least spare you the embarrassment of debuting the world's most hideous hat."

Pyrrha ignored the jab. "Did you use your arm?"

"What?" Wasila said absently, poking at the leech with her wand. It made contact with a soft squelch.

"Did you push me physically?"

"Yes. Why?" The leech shot up into the snaring charm at Wasila's upward flick, setting the writhing mass into a fit of quivering.

"Forget it." The fall had broken Pyrrha's elbow. Had her landing been perfectly poor, she wondered, or had the force of Wasila's push been abnormally powerful?

 _"Maybe you're simply brittle,"_ Ashlin said. _"Apt to shatter, like your mental state."_

The space above became a sea of fire at the spell from Wasila; the braziers' flames erupted down into roaring plumes that consumed the higher half of the room and the leeches within. Stifling heat weighed on Pyrrha as the fire swirled overhead like a blinding, hellish tempest, bathing everything in radiant red light. Wasila gestured, and the flames receded as if sucked out of the air by the iron braziers to sink back into gently flickering embers; nothing remained in their wake except an acrid and metallic stench.

Pyrrha stood near the floor-wall and gestured for Wasila to do the same. She performed a gradual flourish, and the room tilted slowly along with her arm; they stepped carefully onto the floor as it leveled out, the statue bumping and sliding along awkwardly.

"Poor Danforth looks a bit worse for wear," Wasila said.

The statue lay inert on its back, scuffed and chipped in several places, and its nose had broken off. Its brow furrowed over solid black eyes as Pyrrha appraised it. "Couldn't be helped," she said.

They made for the door the statue had indicated earlier. It was still cracked open; the faint yet unmistakable scents of plant life and moisture wafted through the gap.

"The question is," Wasila said, peeking into the environment beyond, "will Rosier live to berate you for it?"

 _"You could end it right here,"_ Ashlin added. _"Seal the door with blood. Let her live off her own darling pets until there are none left. Let her waste away."_

 _I didn't come here to kill._ Pyrrha repeated the assertion aloud. "Though I will if I must," she added grimly. "What happens now is up to Eilith."

* * *

Pyrrha had been gone a full two minutes before it dawned on Daisy that Hati had teeth.

"Come on, come on! Bite like you mean it!" she said, eyes darting between the two exit doors anxiously. Anyone and anything could be roaming this place, and though Pyrrha had intimated she'd be safe where she was, she found it hard to believe, to say the least. The image of the old woman collapsing in a flash of emerald replayed in her head, the rush of air still echoing clearly in her ears.

Hati growled low in his chest as he gnawed away at the thick ropes binding Daisy to the chair, and his silvery eyes narrowed when they flicked to her, as if suggesting he'd find something else to bite if she carried on. For a minute the room was quiet but for Hati's grumbles and snuffles as he tugged, and Daisy held back a giggle at the wolf's frustration. With a final _snap,_ his head jerked away, a twist of torn rope clamped in his jaws. The rest of the coil spilled off of her onto the floor, and she stood with a rush of excitement, rubbing life back into her arms.

"Brilliant," Daisy said, bending to pet Hati, who shook her off irritably and hacked out a frayed string. "Thanks for that. Ready to have a peek around?"

The wolf uttered an impatient bark and raced to the door Pyrrha had departed from, jumping to rake his claws down the wood with a noisy scrape.

"Shh! We don't want her hearing us—she wanted us to stay put, remember? Let's give her a bit to get further away before we go anywhere."

Daisy knew if Pyrrha truly didn't want her free, she'd have been contained far more securely than with a paltry length of rope. Pyrrha had seemed to be fulfilling the bare minimum of an obligation in front of the other woman. It was likely she'd have to put a stop to their excursion if they were heard tromping about, but Daisy still chose to take the ease of her escape as implicit permission to poke around.

Nervous energy thrummed in Daisy's limbs as she looked at the oddly bare shelves and bookcases, the softly glowing suncaps sprouting up everywhere, the concealed corpses of two people who'd been alive and well mere minutes ago. People who knew Pyrrha. They'd been _familiar._ The thought tied a knot taut in her chest, despite that they didn't seem to be on friendly terms. What made these strange recluses worth Pyrrha's time?

The room's main purpose appeared to be that of a gathering place, made obvious by the round table with seven seats, each for a dangerous affiliate of whatever sort of group this was. Two of them dead, one ostensibly on their side but likely to curse them in the back at any moment—Daisy hoped with a lurch in her stomach Pyrrha would remain vigilant—which left three more up in the air. Two, after Pyrrha returned.

Daisy wrung her hands as she strode the perimeter of the room with eyes peeled for anything that might be useful to see. She paused each time she passed a stray book or bauble left behind, but they were unfailingly mundane writings, innocuous objects; the mysterious coterie had likely anticipated some amount of damage to the room. Again Daisy stopped, this time before a wide and ornate silver mirror set atop an even broader vanity against the wall opposite the fireplace.

A probing pass with her wand revealed more than she'd expected; it was no mere ten-sickle mirror charmed for critique, and Daisy felt foolish for assuming as much. The enchantments there were for distant communication. Daisy briefly considered checking on Pyrrha before writing it off; she still had more to see.

Hati huffed impatiently as Daisy rounded the rest of the room, pausing at a desk that wasn't bare. Splinters of wood littered the surface around smaller shavings and coiled strands of wire; it had been a stringed instrument. Daisy cast _Reparo_ without much expectation, and the intact fragments flew together to form a longer, narrow shard. The rest of the debris remained inert. She rifled through the desk's drawers to find assorted parchments with writing that wasn't Pyrrha's; there were lists of diverse, seemingly random herbs and potions, complex arithmantic equations regarding dosage to body weight ratios—

Hati barked testily, making Daisy jump. "Hell!" she said, pressing a hand over her racing heart. "Alright, we're going, you stubborn git. I imagine she's far enough by now." Daisy waved her wand, and the spell revealed three sparkling lights far above. "Yeah . . . it's now or never."

The wolf's eager bark mirrored her own anxious buzz as she replaced the parchment and joined him at the door, her wand held ready. No sooner had she turned the knob than Hati butted through the doorway.

"Watch it, you!" Daisy said as she followed him through. "You can't just barge in wherever you like—who knows what . . . ?" She trailed off at the sight of a hallway like she'd never seen before.

The ridged arch formations brought thoughts to an underground tunnel, but the porous walls swirling with dusky colors told another tale. The bleak and shifting tones were characteristic of the pangaea agaric, a mushroom with several magical properties, well-known for sprouting any and everywhere in the world where existed fertile soil. The tunnel was comprised of fungus flesh. Daisy didn't know what to make of it; there was no practical use for a mushroom tunnel that she could deduce.

Hati paced up and down the hall with his nose in the air, twitching, sniffing at scents under scents. He turned to face Daisy and cocked his head in query.

"Well?" Daisy said. "Can you smell her?"

Hati stared pointedly in both directions before returning his eyes to her.

"Which one is stronger, then?"

The wolf looked to her left.

"That's where she's gone. Let's follow the older smell down the other way—I bet it leads to her room."

Hati whined, turning his head toward the stronger scent.

"Don't worry, she'll be back soon—she said so herself. Stick with me for now, okay?"

Daisy started down the corridor, Hati pacing along behind her with a reluctant grumble. Their way was awash in golden light, and the walls whirled with the wistful tones of winter gloam, a dizzying display that brought together the dreamlike sensation Daisy felt as her shoes clicked off the wood floor to echo down the tunnel. The air smelled odd, like a half-finished brew primed for a spark, a key ingredient to catalyze a reaction.

They came upon a door set into the wall; Daisy's anticipation mounted, a sharp tingling spreading over her skin and within her limbs. She was _finally_ about to learn what Pyrrha had kept hidden for so long, what had driven her to isolation, consumed her life to the exclusion of all else. Hati stood beside Daisy expectantly as she ran her wand over the featureless wood.

There were no safeguards. Daisy turned the knob immediately, thoughts too embroiled in possibilities to question the situation, but even as she threw the door open the realization hit her; before them was the common hall they came from, a deadly silent stage receiving a play of faint shadows across the glowing walls, players cast from the contours of the furniture by the flickering fire. Hati made a bewildered noise in his throat.

"Misdirection Charm," Daisy muttered, feeling faintly embarrassed as the suspense died quietly. She met Hati's unimpressed look. "Let's try that again. Follow the older scent, and I'll get us past the charm this time, alright? Teamwork."

Hati grunted and paced away down the same direction they'd gone. Daisy followed behind, casting out as she went, passing her senses over the imperceptible with steady gestures. The hall seemed to go on forever, its gentle curve thwarting any chance of spotting an end. Twice the way split into several offshoots; one tunnel glowed with blinding, distant light, while another flowed with water that poured from nothing, a roaring deluge cascading along the walls like a gravity-defying sinkhole. Hati led them up the leftmost path at each juncture.

A vague sense of unease settled over her as they progressed, steadily more urgent, more insistent that they were heading in the wrong direction; prepared, she repelled the outside suggestion and shut it out, and she undid the charm with a complicated wave of her wand. She felt a subtle, vertiginous shift, as if the planet had suddenly spun much faster for a moment.

"There." Daisy's voice echoed oddly down the hall. "Stay by my side, now," she said to Hati. "I'll make sure we don't run into anything else."

They progressed with measured steps down the gloomy hall, bypassing a corridor with faint, childish laughter echoing down, until at last they reached the end. They stopped short before a disturbance in reality; the tunnel ahead swam with indistinct colors and shapes, flickering black around the edges as it hummed and crackled with power. The air was thick with a perilous sense of volatility, fragile in the way of a sensitive concoction awaiting the slightest misstep, the smallest miscalculation to culminate in catastrophe.

Daisy was thankful to be familiar with Pyrrha's spellwork; it was a Warping Hex, cleanly neutralized by the Hexpatia Vitiata counterspell. At a deft maneuver of her wand the wavering space ahead seemed to shudder, and instead of resolving into clarity as expected, the whole of it swallowed itself with a scream of streaming wind; left behind was a flat black hole that consumed the air with one endlessly long and greedy gulp, drawing Daisy ever closer across the smooth wood floor as Hati's alarmed barks rang out behind her.

Panic shot through Daisy like frigid lightning as she struggled backward against what felt like hurricane winds, and her wand was a blur of movement; she invoked one counterspell after another while her shoes slid over the floor until she was so close the spell snatched her breath away; she leaned back on her heels an arm's length from undisturbed nothingness and felt herself stop, held back at the waist; Hati had her by the robes, himself anchored in place by sunken claws.

The curse howled in her ears as it drank the air around them, dragging them closer one creeping inch at a time, and Daisy conjured a shimmering barrier with a quick wave; even as it blossomed the shield sank in on itself to disappear within the depths of the curse like a soul down a dementor's throat. Her lungs burned, yearned for sustenance; dizziness set in while she cast her last countercurse to no effect, and she screamed a silent, breathless scream as she was drawn a hair's breadth from death; she cast her first spell over again in one final, desperate gesture, and the ravenous emptiness collapsed into itself and vanished with a low swoop.

Daisy fell to the floor on her knees as relief swept through her like a remedy, and she gasped for breath, blinking away black spots in her vision. "Twice?" she coughed. "The same bloody spell, _twice?_ Why would—what in the _hell_ . . . ?" She trailed off to fill her burning lungs.

Hati stepped past her to sniff at the now-empty space curiously, apparently intrigued by the faint ozone-like taste left in the curse's wake.

"Thanks . . . thanks for saving me," Daisy panted, patting his back as she got to her feet. Her body still thrummed with near-death adrenaline. "I'm fine, by the . . . by the way. No need for . . . all this concern."

Hati gave her an unamused glance and looked pointedly away, ahead of them, where stood a flat stone wall that terminated the hall abruptly. It was unmarked and featureless, with no obvious way past it; Daisy waved her wand outward to uncover no more curses before she approached the stone cautiously.

A metallic scent hung in the air about the entry. Daisy scrutinized every inch of the blank wall, searching with sight and spell for anything at all that may be found, but there was no hint of an opening mechanism. She tried vanishing, destroying, transfiguring, shifting the stone, careful pauses between each attempt in order to ascertain any effect.

Quickly she ran through every recourse, exhausted every option until there were none left to her; in a last ditch effort she drew out two small vials from her robes and mixed them steadily, peppering in powdered firecrab whiskers and a dash of basilisk vitreous before pouring the bubbling concoction over the wall with utmost care. The corrosive substance hissed and sizzled as it trailed black burns down the face of the wall, but no deeper.

The wall wouldn't be circumvented; the charm that sealed it was unfamiliar to Daisy, and was, as far as she could judge, impenetrable.

"Damn . . ." Defeat hung its weight over her heart. Pyrrha would cling to her secrets as long as she possibly could, and if Daisy didn't ferret them out, their situation would never change; Daisy would die not knowing her own best friend, or she would fade from consideration as before, or, most horribly, she would lose Pyrrha to herself.

No—it wouldn't happen. None of it. Daisy rallied her resolve, feeling ready to pummel her way through the stone with her bare hands. Hati gave a soft, encouraging yip as she whipped her wand through intricate patterns that facilitated the most advanced magic available to her. She probed at the stone with myriad feelers, every facet of every searching spell employed in every which way she could conceive of, and a few that she couldn't; she exhumed long-buried knowledge born from observing Pyrrha at work, from her advice and offhand remarks, from her patient and thoughtful lessons.

The wall repelled Daisy at every turn. Each tentative venture veered from her control to fizzle, negated, like trying to ferry a lit candle through rainfall. She persisted with grim determination, trying and trying again to deduce something, anything useful, until she lowered her wand and squeezed her eyes shut against unwelcome tears. It was then, beneath the turmoil in her head, that she felt it.

The floor vibrated under Daisy's shoes with the faintest of tremors in swift and steady intervals. Elation swelled in her chest as she knelt, pressing a palm to the wood; an unpleasant prickling sensation swept up her arm, over the nape of her neck, down the length of her spine. She shuddered, and Hati padded up next to her to place a paw beside her hand. He tilted his head curiously at the floor.

Daisy poured her focus into interpreting the sensation that raced through her every half-second. It was an enchantment like nothing she'd felt before, somehow both comforting and deeply unsettling, and the feeling intensified as she slid her hand across the floor to the bottom of the wall, where the acid hadn't reached. She pressed her palm against the barrier; the stone was warm to the touch, and it pulsed under her fingers with the same steady beats.

"Oh . . ." Daisy said softly. "Weird."

As she attempted to tease out any hint of what the gateway required—a key, a counter, a password—Hati glanced at her hand, then crept forward and placed a paw beside it against the stone; their outstretched limbs passed through empty air as the wall vanished.

"What—how did you—?" Daisy struggled with a whirl of emotions, and she pushed them aside as she stood, taking a shaky breath. Hati looked between her and the doorway ahead with wide silver eyes. "Never mind that for now, we've wasted enough time—let's go."

After a cursory magical assessment of the room beyond, Daisy stepped through the threshold into Pyrrha's quarters with a rush of feeling like the steepest dive on a broomstick. An antiseptic smell assaulted her nose, and her eyes were immediately drawn to the opposite wall, against which sat two massive and cylindrical vats of radiant emerald fluid. The translucent substance swirled with formless clouds and coils, and dark shapes drifted from deep within; Daisy approached one of the the vats and peered through the tempered glass, strained her eyes to make out something more distinct.

Her heart leapt into her throat as the unmistakable shadow of a human hand floated past.

"Oh—oh my God . . ." Daisy stepped back unsteadily as her pulse raced, nearly tripping over Hati.

The green liquid was a preservative. Embalming fluid. Pyrrha's extended sequestration had to do with human body parts—what on earth had she undertaken?

Daisy took deep breaths as she turned from the morbid tanks, already starting to rationalize—Pyrrha would never delve so deeply into the dark arts as to defile the dead, she thought. But that was a lie. Pyrrha had used freely whatever magics she deemed necessary, without a care given for society's conventions; she'd insisted Daisy receive instruction in resisting the Imperius Curse, and she'd made efficient use of the spell, a sure mark of ample practice.

It was also true that, to Daisy's knowledge, Pyrrha had never employed dark magic for personal gain, but Daisy's knowledge was quite obviously lacking. She turned a slow spin on her heel in the middle of the room; there were stacks upon stacks of ancient books, of course, but there were also tables laden with alembics, beakers and retorts filled with substances ranging in grim shades of red; there were brains and hearts floating within a swirling azure mist, occasional sparks and flickers of light arcing from their pulsating flesh across the cloud; set before the macabre nebula was a stone lectern, a large, leatherbound tome visible upon its stand.

Daisy approached the lectern almost against her will. As she drew near, that same faint and metallic smell passed over her, and she couldn't help but recognize it now. The book's exterior was well cared for, yet it gave signs of extensive use in the deep folds and creases visible, in the wrinkled yellow parchment betwixt the covers. The title appeared handwritten in white ink: _Blodmaegen: a Compendium of Hematic Arcana._ No name nor pseudonym laid claim to the work.

The book wore the same aura of danger Pyrrha's bag had. Hati whined as Daisy inched a hand forward, retracting it moments later when the dread sharpened, her heart pounding. She wouldn't learn the contents firsthand, but now that she'd been here, seen this, Pyrrha would surely explain. The only trouble was that Daisy didn't know that she wanted answers anymore. Aimless distress churned in her chest like a sickness, and she turned from the lectern to spot a nondescript wooden door.

She didn't care where it led; she had to leave, had to flee the assault of horrible speculations the room forced on her. Hati's claws clicked behind her as she retreated down the featureless hall beyond, passing under dimly lit oil lamps—the beating hearts behind her flashed before her eyes as if she'd apparated back.

Had Pyrrha's heart been cursed by her own hand? The meaning was incomprehensible—nothing could possibly be worth such devotion, countless sequestered hours spent doing _something_ that was rotting her from the inside, killing her by degrees. Despair thickened the blood in Daisy's chest and weighed her limbs down.

The hall ended with a sizeable portrait of the singer Daphne Greengrass, of all people, flanked by doors on each side. The oddity of it stymied Daisy's dismay for a moment as she watched the woman doze within a spider-silk hammock in the background of her lavish dwelling.

A voice registered beyond the righthand door, high and cheerful. Daisy's heart rate accelerated, and she turned her wand on the door, staggering back as a pale figure passed through it and stopped just short of her.

"Oh!" It was the ghost of a young boy, slight and narrow-faced with a mop of curly hair. His throat bore the dark imprint of a large pair of hands wrapped around. "Sorry. Who're you?"

"I . . ." Daisy lowered her wand, feeling utterly overwhelmed by it all, unable to find her voice. Beside her, Hati cocked his head at the boy curiously.

"Are you . . . here to take Miss Clay's place?" the boy asked, expression falling. "Is she dead? She's dead, isn't she?"

"N-no, she's—she's fine," Daisy stammered. "Take her place in what?"

"In Mamma's Cabal, of course," the boy said, a smile lighting his face. "Did Mamma forgive her? I hoped so, but I didn't think she would—she was furious like you wouldn't believe, even more angry than when I broke her papa's mirror! But—wait . . ." The boy frowned. "If you're here, that means someone else is gone, right? Mamma says it's best to have seven people."

Daisy's heart twinged at the senseless deaths she'd witnessed. "Your mother?" she asked rather than answering.

"Her name's Aradia Tavani. I'm Vincenzo, but you can call me Vinci if you want. Oh— _please_ don't tell Mamma I was here," he added, rubbing his neck anxiously. "She doesn't like me to visit, but I can't just leave Nona alone in that boring old room."

Pyrrha had someone locked up. Daisy's tenuous grasp on her rosy image of Pyrrha slipped further and further away with a plummeting feeling. She peered through Vincenzo at the nondescript door behind him. "And who—who is Nona?" Daisy asked, her throat dry as parchment.

Vincenzo narrowed his eyes at her under a furrowed brow, a childish expression of suspicion. "You don't know _anything_ about this place, do you? Were you even invited?"

"She wasn't." Pyrrha's voice made Daisy spin on her heel in time to see the stunning spell strike her chest.


	10. Chapter 10

Pyrrha and Wasila passed beyond the door to emerge within a lush jungle, and the abrupt change of scenery was almost breathtaking. The smells of fresh rainfall and damp soil permeated the twilit rainforest. Scattered shrubs, vines and vibrant plants sat half-distinct under layered shadows, shifting patterns thrown by sunshine leaking through the shattered canopy of swaying leaves far above. The forest was alive with noise; countless calls resounded from far-off and not, all running together in a near-endless stream of bestial chatter.

A spell revealed the waiting welcome; a constellation of lights dotted the branches overhead, each denoting a furry and robust black figure with an apish outline looming over them, perched in shade they wore like a cloak, and Pyrrha could make out over a dozen sets of fangs bared in broad grimaces.

Wasila followed her eyes and whispered: "I wonder . . . what are the odds they're friendly, only rubbish at smiling?"

The creatures answered for themselves; they leapt heavily from their branches and soared with two sets of batlike wings unfolding, withholding their simian bodies from the ground as they barked out harsh shrieks that stabbed at Pyrrha's eardrums with shards of ice, sharp and blinding agony grating against her bones like a grindstone.

She held her breath and performed a wide-ranging gesture; the air wailed as it was ripped out of place, and it gathered around herself and Wasila in a swirling pocket of impossible density, a feeling of immense pressure pressing her in as if she stood below an ocean. Foliage whipped around them as she maintained the spell with swift twirls, and the shrieks cut off; with no air left to them the beasts dropped quietly from the sky to strike the dirt with heavy thumps, some dying on impact, others writhing breathlessly as Pyrrha kept the curse alive with perpetual motions.

Air continued to gather, pressure continued to build; Pyrrha kept casting until black spots bloomed across her vision; she released the spell, and the stolen air rushed out in all directions with the roaring force of a fleeting hurricane, sending burly bodies tumbling away as she gasped for breath, fighting lightheadedness to remain upright.

Plants rustled when the few creatures left living stirred. Their every shrill breath exhaled drove another nail into Pyrrha's ears; Wasila darted ahead into the brush and silenced them one by one, piercing voices cut off by a pulse of wind and emerald light. A headache came full-formed in Pyrrha's skull while she caught her breath, watching between trees for snatches of Wasila's shape weaving throughout, swift and silent as a jungle cat. She emerged from the undergrowth seconds later with a cheery smile.

"Well, that was quite a racket. What next, do you think?" Wasila said. "Lions, tigers, or bears?"

Pyrrha shook her head and cast out for life, and the sparks receding in all directions confirmed her suspicion. "Those things were a warning as much as an ambush; Eilith's creatures have retreated." Another flick revealed the woman's lifesign growing steadily closer. "It appears she's on her way to meet us."

"Perfect," Wasila said. "I've never been much for the outdoors."

With one slow and deliberate gesture of her wand Pyrrha cast a curse resembling thick black smoke that spread through the air in every direction, drifting not in coils, but in wavy streams seeking the surrounding plant life, seeping over leafy stems and up along vine-wrapped trunks like a spreading stain, deadly silent. The affected flora sat perfectly still, a static shadow of the forest that had been, before their murky shapes dissolved into wavering wisps that flickered and vanished from sight, revealing the inky tide behind them as the curse dispersed ever further. Pyrrha maintained the spell until she could see several hundred feet all around, where nothing remained but sunlit soil.

As the spell faded, Pyrrha caught snatches of movement at the new-formed border of the forest, creatures of all shapes fleeing for shelter from the sudden daylight; she focused on one loping form that resembled no animal she'd ever seen, a pale and hairless quadruped the size of a lion with limbs long and sinewy; it paused before the treeline and sniffed at the air, turning a wide, eyeless head precisely in Pyrrha's direction. Saliva dribbled from the beast's eerily wide jaw as it seemed to stare, deliberating, before turning to vanish into the jungle.

"Rosier's been a busy bee," Wasila mused. "What might she want with such malformed creatures? The pleasure of like company?"

Pyrrha didn't know or care. "In a moment you can ask her yourself."

She led the way across the barren field under dazzling charmed sunlight. The dirt was loamy and fresh under her boots, and it absorbed the sounds of each step until she stopped in the center of the desolation. All around was flat nothingness—another field ravaged by fire flashed before Pyrrha's eyes; a painful twist in her gut followed the scar's flare of heat. Silence pressed in.

Only half her mind considered the impending confrontation. Morrigan had had ample time to pursue, and Pyrrha knew she could even now be hanging over the Lodge like a corporeal curse, a mindless emissary of death scraping at the door with blunt and brittle fingerbones, relentless imminence embodied.

"Where are we?" Pyrrha asked, eyes roving the treeline, alert for the smallest flicker of motion. A spell revealed Eilith's presence drawing closer still, and another affirmed the feeling winding across her skin; there were endless ferine eyes appraising her from the forest's fold.

Wasila leaned back to bask in the sunshine. "Mmm . . . a few dozen miles from Lukla, I believe," she said, exhaling a tranquil breath. "How fast does your oldest admirer travel?"

"Fast enough. We'll need to—"

The plants and bushes ahead retracted into the earth, the vine-laden trees leaned aside, and Eilith emerged from the forest as it shifted back into place behind her. Her seething expression was firmly set as she strode closer, wand ready at her side—she gestured upward and Pyrrha tensed, but newborn clouds swelling in the sky were the only result; they spread across like soap suds on water to capture the harsh sunbeams in their screen of gloom, casting a grey pall over the clearing.

The air sharpened with tension as Eilith passed within speaking distance and kept walking, her gaze secured to Pyrrha's with an ironclad connection; Pyrrha saw Wasila draw back from the corner of her vision as she leveled her wand at Eilith in warning. Undeterred, the woman advanced with anomalous muteness until the tip of Pyrrha's wand pressed between her burning eyes.

Seconds passed like hours while Eilith conveyed unrivaled contempt in her stare. "Well?" she said finally. "Are you going to do me in, or not?"

"Not unless you force my hand," Pyrrha said, "but you know that, of course, judging by this little show." She nudged Eilith's forehead with her wand.

"Poke me again and I'll force the whole fucking arm down your throat."

"Bravado doesn't suit you," Wasila commented from aside. "You've thrown your little tantrum, here's Mummy come to acknowledge you. How about being a big girl, now, and staying out of our way?"

Eilith turned her searing glare to Wasila. "Traitorous bitch—you helped her overcome the others, didn't you? _Didn't you?"_ Wasila merely smiled sweetly in response, and Eilith seethed. "Spineless fucking coward."

Wasila let out a soft laugh. "An adorable tautology, bless you."

"She saw reason," Pyrrha cut in. "Morrigan is upon us, and within the hour, that will be a literal truth. This threat is above our petty rivalry, above Cabal politics; either help us or stand aside, if you have any desire to live."

"Petty rivalry?" Eilith went eerily still for a moment, and Pyrrha caught a flash of boiling rage behind her eyes that vanished just as quickly. "I don't care about Morrigan. Actually, I'm feeling rather generous towards her right about now," she said quietly. "I'm going to give her what she wants."

"That—"

"You're surrounded," Eilith said bluntly, her smile more a grimace. "Kill me, and they'll keep you alive while they feed, savor you as long as you survive. But you knew that, of course," she added with venom. "If you surrender, I'll consider making it quick."

Wasila gave an amused noise. "You might consider who you're threatening, instead. How do you plan to cohabitate with a genocidal immortal, should you defy the astronomically long odds and best us?"

"Just what makes you so bloody certain _she's_ the only one who can do anything about it?" Eilith said, still glaring daggers down the tip of Pyrrha's wand.

Pyrrha fought the impulse to glance at Wasila; it was something she wanted to know, herself.

"Maven saw it," Wasila said simply, as if she'd never heard the old seer declare the opposite mere hours ago.

Eilith scoffed. "Right. Forgive me if I don't put stock in the prescience of a dead woman, nor the lies of her killers," she said, voice steeped in vehemence. Her eyes never left Pyrrha's. "It doesn't matter, because I don't give a damn who's fated to do what. Pyrrha doesn't deserve to leave this room alive after all she's done."

"Perhaps you don't care for this bizarre little zoo quite as much as you pretend to," Pyrrha said. "You've thrown their lives away, and you're about to do the same with the rest; if you insist on conflict, I'll best you, and I'll eradicate the entire habitat. The others, too. You can prevent it, but only if you cooperate."

Eilith stepped back and laughed, a harsh and humorless sound. "You've been sure of yourself before, Pyrrha, and look what it got you; a face fit for solitude, an absence of family to match—"

The curse left Pyrrha's wand with a flick and a thought, but Eilith was ready; it passed by her cheek as she returned with a pure white spell Pyrrha deflected, and the few feet of space between them grew steadily wider; they drew back one step at a time while they burned the air with a storm of curses flashing just as fast as the eye could track. Heat radiated from the center of their contest where spells seared the space and landed anywhere but where they stood; the scorching air shimmered like fire, and Pyrrha sent it forth in a sweltering wave that parted around Eilith at her gesture.

Ribbons of distortion trailed from Eilith's wand tip as she transitioned to another spell that blossomed like a warped sun, serpentine beams of light licking at all in reach to leave shining scars as they extended. Pyrrha gestured; a tall mirror appeared between them, and the tongues of light hissed and bent back to lash at Eilith, who narrowly diverted the strikes, an oath ripped from her lips as she ended the spell. At Pyrrha's motion the mirror birthed a perfect Eilith, and it launched into a stream of curses while Pyrrha added to the assault; the real Eilith batted away the barrage with blinding-fast flicks until she'd bought herself a brief moment to tap her head; her hair turned from brown to black, and the mimic vanished.

A swipe sent the mirror soaring for Eilith, and as it burst into shards midair Pyrrha shifted the fragments into an array of daggers which buried themselves in the dirt mound that gathered up. A shuddering purple curse blasted through the pile in a spray of soil to reveal nothing beneath; the curse soared on to carve through the forest, its howling matched by the cries of wounded beasts. Before Pyrrha could think the seeking spell she felt a tingle at her back; she spun on her heel and conjured an iron shield which shattered in a flash of emerald flames the next second.

The ground gave an ominous series of rumbles as they exchanged spellfire; Pyrrha nullified one curse with a whisper of air and spun away from another to cast where her back turned; the iridescent charm shined down from behind her to light Eilith's pale countenace, rapturous and vacant, and Pyrrha aimed—

The earth erupted in twin showers of dirt, violent tremors throwing Pyrrha off balance as two towering shapes loomed over her, grotesque and wormlike creatures with gaping maws and swaying tendrils; they convulsed and spat an oily substance Pyrrha captured in the air, acrid fumes burning her lungs as she sent it streaming toward Eilith, whose murderous face glowed green in the light of a spell; Pyrrha fanned out the stream and froze it with a whirl to receive the curse as the monsters lunged.

Under Pyrrha's flitting wand the monsters shifted until they fell to her feet in a tangle of rope which became a rearing snake in turn; Pyrrha pulled it into the path of a curse that cut it to ribbons and returned with a lightning bolt that arced away from Eilith's arm at her motion, and Eilith raised her wand to her throat and uttered a thunderous call at the top of her lungs as Pyrrha lashed out again.

The cry echoed over the field as Eilith narrowly blocked a curse, the force of it sending her staggering; she deflected three more while she stumbled back, falling away from the fourth as a stampede of formidable footsteps registered from all around. Pyrrha ignored them, shaping grasping arms from the earth while Eilith rolled away, slashing off snatched robes with a flash as she sprang to her feet. Pyrrha's curse glanced off the pale barrier Eilith raised around herself, and she smirked from within the swirling shell. Countless hulking creatures barreled out of the forest.

"Very well," Pyrrha said quietly; she performed a complicated twirl, and the barrier crackled as it seemed to putrefy, black veins of corruption snaking across the surface that dulled into muted shades of grey. Eilith flourished her wand, eyes widening when nothing happened.

The beasts closed in from all sides with loping strides twice their length, each monstrous footfall adding weight to the frantic drumming beats. There was no time to look closer; Pyrrha's heart lodged in her throat as she gestured upward and soared from the ground, borne smoothly away on a wide platform of solid earth. As she rose she couldn't help but peer down at the snarling masses left behind, a furious churning sea of wiry brutes with too-long necks craned up at her, unsettling blunt teeth bared as they leapt over each other to snap at the air beneath her. A brief scan yielded no sign of Wasila.

Pyrrha halted her ascent just out of the beasts' reach as she began to feel dizzy. She knelt to steady herself, taking in deep breaths while she peered past the horde of mossy fur and bloodshot eyes to the murky barrier that still caged Eilith, who cast upon it with one fruitless attempt after another, her panicked frustration growing more apparent with each failed effort. Pyrrha's flicker of amusement died as quickly as it came when a new sound reached her from above.

Flying beasts with wicked curved beaks and long, whiplike tails screamed down from all around in steep headlong dives, closer by the second. From her knees Pyrrha raised her wand and executed a complex maneuver; subtle light shone from the tip, and it filled the sky with gently swirling radiance in every shade of blue, an otherworldly monochrome aurora. The ethereal glow blossomed across the air and over the field below; as the airborne beasts passed within they sank like stones to careen into the masses, each dull crunch of impact followed by pained squalling and outraged snarls.

A brilliant jet of emerald light flew several feet from Pyrrha, and she turned sharply to see Eilith casting again from her prison, features frozen in cold fury. Incoming green curses surpassed the barrier and soared by ever nearer, each with a tremendous rush of air, while Pyrrha allowed her platform to sink. She rose to her feet as she rejoined the earth among countless groaning creatures that lay inert, limbs weighed down by the charm drifting around them like eddies of air made azure light.

A gesture tore one winged creature from the dirt to float before Pyrrha as she strode forward between the supine masses; before it could so much as squawk in protest the incoming curse struck with a burst of emerald, and the fight died from the thing's beady black eyes. A wordless scream of rage ripped through Eilith; Pyrrha cast the leathery beast aside to pluck up another, and it died just the same, but Eilith didn't stop, hurling curses one after the other to strike the monsters Pyrrha yanked into her path with swift flicks.

"Won't you just die, die, die, fucking _die!"_ Eilith kept casting like a woman possessed until Pyrrha tossed aside the latest victim and dispelled the corrupted barrier with a flourish; the sapphire light of her charm swept in to swaddle Eilith before she could blink, and she fell heavily to her knees; her arm drooped, shaking as she strained against invisible weight. She struggled a moment longer before collapsing face-first into the dirt.

"I'm afraid I won't," Pyrrha said. She disarmed Eilith with a flash and approached slowly, kneeling with care beside her motionless form. A twirl of her wand turned Eilith over to reveal a disquieting blank expression.

"Too bad," she said hoarsely. "Get on with it, then." Her eyes remained transfixed by the dull grey sky while she lay stiffly like one already interred, arms at her sides.

Pyrrha despised the feeling of a life held by her blood-sullied fingers. Through her hollow shell, such power had wrought far more woe than wonder.

"I . . . don't want this for you." The admission came as a small surprise even to Pyrrha; she had every reason to feel otherwise, though such murderous ire as Eilith's focused on her was well-deserved.

 _"You're a scourge,"_ Ashlin affirmed, voice edged with something unsettling. _"We are."_

"Feeling's not mutual," Eilith muttered. "Never will be, so get it over with, already. I'd rather not waste my last moments chatting with _you."_

An amused hum escaped Pyrrha. "You don't have a choice."

Eilith huffed. "Bitch."

Pyrrha leaned back to sit on her heels; she studied Eilith intently, the facade of contented resignation mirrored in the thoughts she offered. "I want to know where your hatred for me stems from."

The question seemed to rekindle a fire in Eilith. She tore her eyes from the clouds to shoot an incredulous glare. "The bloody nerve you have to even ask that question . . . Do you think so little of the damage you've done? Unleashed an unstoppable disaster, murdered our colleagues, snuffed out hundreds of muggles—?"

"That's not it," Pyrrha said quietly. "You've despised me since long before all this. Tell me why." It was her best—and perhaps final—chance to answer a question that had nagged at her for two years.

"Bugger off," Eilith spat, turning her head away with a grunt of effort. "Be done with it! I'm through talking."

Pyrrha pointed her wand at Eilith; foreign thoughts and memories blossomed in her mind and wilted the next moment, withered away and scattered to the winds until all was barren.

"You'll get _nothing_ from me!" Eilith snarled, squirming within the aura wreathed around her.

"You can't stop me. Save us both some time."

"Fuck—!"

Red light winked at the tip of Pyrrha's wand, and Eilith arched her back as she howled in agony until she had no breath left. She gasped in bursts just long enough to scream again, the piercing cries ringing out over the field like the death knell of a crooked bell resounding between the jungle trunks. The forest rustled at the edges as unnatural beings found their way out and promptly collapsed within the radiant aurora drifting about the clearing. At last Pyrrha lowered her arm; the rosy glow faded and took the wailing with it.

"Tell me what you're hiding."

Eilith took harsh breaths. "You—you'll—"

Once more Pyrrha assailed the woman's mind, now a primal storm of emotion in stark contrast to the former serenity; adrenaline flowed as alien rage swept through, and Pyrrha redoubled her concentration, brushing aside the sensation to slither in further, deeper. Scattered scraps of memories flashed before her eyes as they flickered away like leaves in a breeze. She saw them, felt them, fleeting split-second scenes—a tall figure at the other end of a platform; a painful throb from her jaw; the smells of sweat and ozone; the cheers and jeers of a teeming crowd.

Like bothersome bugs, other memories flittered in to meddle: a barn owl spilling ink over piles of coursework; a redheaded boy disparaging her over breakfast, to the table's entertainment; cool air streaming through her hair high above the stands—

Pyrrha's heart lurched at the suspended sensation—too far aloft on a thin strip of charmed wood, at the scant mercy of the greater forces of the world. The reeling inanities flickered to a stop as Eilith's triumph bled through, and the memory sharpened into lifelike detail, swerving through the air in daring swoops and dives that set Pyrrha's heart thundering. The dive steepened, and she was falling, falling—

A breath and a blink brought her from the brink of lost control. She didn't feel the pain her recrimination brought, but she felt Eilith's visceral reaction, the anathema to every thought that wasn't escape from the hell surging through her from everywhere at once.

"I can end it all," Pyrrha said under Eilith's cries. The words wouldn't venture far intact, but her voice, her suggestion, would come across. "Stop fighting. Show me the truth."

At last, the garbled memories playing out before her resolved into a legible chaos: the Headmaster's dispassionate recitation of the rules and rewards of the annual dueling tournament, a glorious thrill overtaking the ever-present shameful undercurrent born of her name; incredulous amusement at her first round opponent, the bookworm who'd never had a proper duel in her life; shock and horror spiraling down her as she lifted her head from the platform, the bitch already stepping away; the remainder of the evening passing through a fog of numb while the rest fought for her future, her one opportunity come and gone in a blink.

The final scene crystallized into a perfect picture of the past, every detail captured and held in suspended animation, a memory never faded, never far from the forefront: Pyrrha Clay, hunched against the spectators' praises, quietly declined the life she'd stolen from Eilith without a thought, leaving behind a stunned Head Auror to issue a halfhearted offer to the runner-up.

The turmoil swirling through Pyrrha swept into place, and she understood, a wrenching feeling within her chest wrapping her in iron bands of regret. She released the spell and felt cerebral relief as Eilith's emotions faded from her.

Eilith sobbed even while she fought her distress with rough breaths, gulping air as if enough of it would stem the outpouring. Pyrrha sat still and silent by her side. At length the tide of feeling fell low, and Eilith's panting breaths filled the silence, the soft and steady sounds laboring under the immense weight of anticipation.

Pyrrha said, "It must've been a trial like none other, to carry a Death Eater's name through school."

"I hate you," Eilith said, her quiet intensity tracing a little chill down Pyrrha's neck.

"I understand." Pyrrha found herself at a loss for words while she contemplated the revelation. She had inadvertently snatched away Eilith's most precious desire, and from her perspective, had discarded it without a care. The aching loss still echoed in Pyrrha's chest, a familiar feeling, yet vastly different.

"Kill me," Eilith whispered. Her eyes were closed, utterly peaceful, and with her pallid complexion, her teary cheeks, she appeared as a drowned woman sunk beneath a swell of swirling sapphire.

"Luscinia changed her name. Could you not've—?"

"For fuck's sake!" Eilith bellowed, shattering the air of peace. "No, Pyrrha, I couldn't change my fucking name—Evan Rosier _is not the family!_ That bloody tournament was my only—" she let loose a wordless howl of rage "—just do it, already! _End it!"_

"I've told you, that's not what I want. I intend to spare your life upon the sealing of a Vow."

Eilith barked a harsh laugh, a faint note of hysteria betraying her fear as she struggled against the charm. "What're you hoping for, you fucking lunatic? Lifelong servitude? Humiliation? You'll never have my word," she said, voice escalating until she was screaming her throat raw, "and if you don't kill me here and now, I swear to God I'll spend _weeks_ giving you everything you _bloody deserve!"_

Wasila's amused voice came from behind. "Offer her life, and she demands death. You're the epitome of obstinacy, Rosier." She stepped silently around them to stand at Eilith's other side, movement sluggish, as if treading through water. Her too-wide smile betrayed only the barest hint of strain amidst the charm's influence. "By the by, threats tend to yield more favorable results when they don't sound quite so romantic."

"You—!"

"All I want in return," Pyrrha said over Eilith, "is a truce. A truce that ends upon Morrigan's death." She paused to let the implications sink in; the other two regarded her with similar disbelieving expressions. "We'll settle our accounts afterward."

Wasila knelt and peered at Pyrrha with lively curiosity. "Interesting. What did she show you?"

"That's between her and myself," Pyrrha said. She allowed her displeasure to radiate as she added, "Your assistance in resolving this dispute would've saved us valuable time. Explain yourself."

Wasila cracked a wide, mischievous smile. "You made it quite clear my meddling on your behalf is unwelcome. Have I not held to your instructions?"

"This isn't a _game,_ Wasila," Pyrrha said, jaw set painfully tight. "There's far too much at stake for this sort of foolishness."

"I'll endeavor to practice only the proper sort of foolishness, then."

Irritation was swept aside by Morrigan's shadow spilling ever further across Pyrrha's thoughts. Time was of the essence. "Bond us," she said, snatching up Eilith's hand. "Now."

"Well, since you asked so politely . . ."

Wasila drew her wand and set the tip against their clasped hands. She and Pyrrha looked at Eilith with expectance, and Eilith bored holes into Pyrrha with the force of her stare. After a moment, she hissed a seething sigh and squeezed Pyrrha's hand hard in vindictive assent.

"I'll not agree to anything else," Eilith ground out. "Don't try."

"Thank you," Pyrrha said, and she meant it. There were far too many deaths resting on her shoulders.

Wasila waved an intricate pattern over their joined hands; a faint aura of light shined as if from within their flesh, and Wasila returned her wand tip to press against Pyrrha's knuckles. A solemn gravity settled over Pyrrha as the spell took hold of some hidden piece of her. Eilith's eyes tightened and flicked away at a low moan from one of her beasts.

"Begin," Wasila said. "Or go on holding hands in silence, if that's what you need. Bracing moments like these are a rare pleasure. I understand."

"Couldn't have offed her, too?" Eilith muttered darkly.

Pyrrha ignored them and set her eyes firmly on Eilith's, and she spoke clearly: "Will you set aside your grievances toward me until Morrigan is destroyed?"

There was a stretch of silence while Eilith stared back, her baleful expression a different sort of promise, an assurance that time wouldn't blunt her feelings. Eventually: "I will."

A ribbon of light rippled from Wasila's wand and wrapped around their joined hands, sank into their flesh, and the glow faded as Pyrrha let go.

Pyrrha stood and looked around through the brilliant shifting curtains of light at the groaning beasts stirring feebly. "The spell will fade soon," she said, and she strode away with Wasila at her side, back toward the exit.

* * *

It wasn't until they reached another of the Lodge's halls they were warned. The luminescent mushrooms along the walls had darkened in tone from soft gold into a harsh scarlet hue, and the meaning was clear.

"She's here," Pyrrha said with a frigid thrill, probing at the Lodge's enchantments as they hurried along the corridor.

"Should we run?" Wasila asked, sounding exhilarated.

"Abandon the Lodge? Why—?"

"No—actually run, instead of this speedwalking nonsense. It's a little undignified, yes, but—?"

Wasila cut herself off as the hall's end came into view, and they stormed through the doorless portal into a vast room nearly as spacious as the antechamber, though shaped quite differently. There were no walls, only a low, domed ceiling set directly against the circular floor. All of it swirled with the familiar dreamy patterns of dark blues and purples, though it was washed out by the red glow of the fungi sprouting all around. The characteristic smell was stronger than elsewhere.

In the chamber's center stood a cauldron wide enough to fit several grown men, and it bubbled readily over a blazing fire, the substance within murky and mudlike. Around it was an extensive array of potioneering materials set on desks and inside many-locked chests; scales and silver knives and mortar and pestle were scattered about, debris among the larger sieves and crucibles.

They set to work at once, rifling through the stores for snidget feathers, bottled ozone, and several more exotic ingredients. Beside Pyrrha, Wasila held up two vials to the light, both in shades of green nearly indistinguishable. She huffed in annoyance and released the vials, which hung in place as she drew her wand and restored the lighting to a more natural tone.

While Pyrrha cast a dusting of creeping coral into the brew, she felt a sickening tingle in her chest.

 _"Someone's bypassed the sanction,"_ Ashlin said. _"Daisy. How did she come by your blood, I wonder? Does she know more than we suspect?"_

Ice crept through Pyrrha at the thought. _We'll find out soon._

"Nearly done," Wasila said as she stirred the cauldron with slow circles of her wand, the substance within now a deep, sluggish green. "The soil?" she added with a questioning look.

With several quick gestures, a weathered trunk popped open its third lock and released myriad translucent spheres formed of charmed water to float like bubbles in the air. Each of them were drawn from every sea and commingled into something more. Inside the eclectic orbs were swirling clouds of dirt undiluted by the water, secured as if in fluid glass. Pyrrha directed one to float over and into the churning liquid in the cauldron, and Wasila's eyes followed as it sank.

"Argentina?" she said. "Suppose that's about as far as possible, but does it make a difference?"

"It does," Pyrrha said as she locked the soils away again. "She doesn't apparate. It'll have to suffice."

Everything trembled as if the Lodge itself were at an earthquake's epicenter, and the lights darkened back into a stifling bloody red. Their eyes met.

"The fumes—quickly," Pyrrha said, waving her wand across the Lodge. The enchantments woven throughout were already wavering, to her alarm; she bolstered them with her own charmwork as Wasila toiled feverishly over the boiling cauldron.

It was a battle of minds, indirect and intimate. Morrigan's influence seeped between the cracks to pry at the Lodge's underpinnings, scrabbling for purchase, and Pyrrha rebuffed, redirected—she reformed the Lodge's defenses in a constant flow of change as Morrigan peeled away at each charm like methodical claws across skin, each pass sinking further to the bones.

A barely perceptible tremor swept through the defenses, and at once there was a cascade of collapse—Wasila called out in alarm as the shadows of the room stretched over them, unnaturally solid, to smother the lights, reaching across surfaces with shapeless arms; Pyrrha cast out the blackness with a swipe of burning light and kept maneuvering, her wand a blur issuing charms that made mockery of the human senses as they passed beyond perception to permeate the Lodge.

Morrigan's touch probed for weakness and found it again; as Pyrrha made to act against her the colors of the room were inverted, the ceiling swirling with blinding, dizzying light, Wasila's face black as night where it turned up in surprise. Pyrrha countered the charm and her arm hit the wall—the room was closing in, barely half the proper size and shrinking further until they were trapped between wall and burning cauldron; Pyrrha averted a deathly curse that sought Wasila, then performed a swift gesture and the room snapped back again.

As Pyrrha contested Morrigan's reaving, Wasila tended the cauldron with all of her haste, a flurry of motions in repetition rendered thoughtless by memory. She stirred with one hand and dashed in components with the other until the cauldron emitted a sibilant noise and began to billow smoke in great puffs. At this she aimed her wand at the fire; it roared to new heights to lick around the lip of the cauldron, and the fumes grew into a steady column of smog that swirled up to seep through the ceiling.

"Done!"

"Not yet," Pyrrha said as she nullified a wicked hex with a gesture and a screech of air. "She means to withhold us."

"We'll slip her!"

Wasila joined her efforts with Pyrrha's, and together they twisted and struggled against Morrigan's advancing hold over the Lodge, her curses cleaving in to anchor them in place. Their wands moved to an untraceable symphony while they wrested control, little by little; though Morrigan was almost indomitable, a primal force, it was their Lodge, and it favored them; with one coactive artifice of magic they won free for a moment, and it was all they needed.

"We're away!" Wasila said breathlessly. "Have we—?"

Pyrrha gestured at the domed ceiling, and its bleak shades faded to reveal their snowswept mountainside in Nepal rising higher and higher around them. Above, Morrigan's yellow eyes burned no less harshly in the pale midday sun; she stared down at Pyrrha while she descended with them, a ruined arm outstretched, and Pyrrha stared back until the view was smothered by unbroken white, sinking gradually into black as the Lodge burrowed beneath the earth.

They waited in silence with senses heightened by adrenaline. Pyrrha stood ready while Wasila coaxed more from the cauldron, and eventually, the lights turned from crimson to pink and then to gentle gold, and relief settled over her; they had escaped.

Fury was quick to sweep her up. To be chased from one refuge to another like a frightened rabbit, ineffectual and pathetic, by the one who had taken all from her . . .

 _"We'll have her soon,"_ Ashlin said in her ear, soft and reassuring. _"Soon. There's only some work yet ahead."_

Her sister's voice abated her ire, though not enough; Wasila spoke with familiar amusement. "Ah, yes, it's rather vexing to miss death by a hair, isn't it? All those squandered hours composing the perfect epitaph . . ."

Pyrrha swept out of the room without a word, leaving Wasila to tend the mixture.

* * *

Unsteady beats of the heart belied Pyrrha's outer calm. She sat across from Daisy by the common hall's fire once again, her friend slumped and unconscious. Time passed uselessly; it wouldn't change their impending talk, because all Pyrrha could tell her was nothing, whether she preferred otherwise or not. She wasn't stalling to compose an explanation, but to brace herself for the outcome of Daisy's discovery.

The thought her dear friend might wake and look at her with revulsion and fear stayed her from waking Daisy. A sick feeling twisted in her gut while she stared, helpless, at Daisy's troubled face.

Ashlin was behind Daisy's chair, leaning over with a thoughtful look. She raised her eyes to Pyrrha. "I've got a solution."

Pyrrha drew her wand quickly and flicked it, glancing up past the dimly glowing ceiling sprouts, just to be certain; Wasila's spark of life flickered far off, still diligently minding the cauldron in the Lodge's uppermost chamber, and Eilith shined deep within her feral domain.

"Tell me," Pyrrha whispered. She didn't bother to mask her distress; with Ashlin, it was a futile endeavor.

Ashlin's smile somehow darkened her expression, made more sinister by the fire's flickering half-light. "Don't pretend. You know what I'm about to suggest—the same course you're considering now. It's your only option, really."

"Obliviation? I couldn't—couldn't do . . ."

"Why not? You prefer her hurt? Her confusion and disgust?"

"Of course not."

"Then take it from her," Ashlin said earnestly. "The pain, the uncertainty, the danger—take it all, send her back to Hogwarts. It's not too late to fix this mistake."

Pyrrha wallowed in indecision. The thought of destroying even a snippet of thought in Daisy's head made her blood turn cold. She reached out and ran her hand across the soft fur of Hati's neck, the wolf sitting steadfast beside her, looking from her to the empty space behind Daisy in bemusement.

A miniscule part of Pyrrha, the part that carried furtive hope, thought Daisy might consider her. Though they hadn't spoken in too long, theirs was a friendship outside of time, she thought, a transcendent bond that could drop off for years and pick up again as if it were the very next day. If anyone in the world would venture to understand and accept Pyrrha's vital purpose, it was Daisy.

Though she was loath to share her burden, the alternatives were yet worse. She needed Daisy.

Ashlin knew Pyrrha's answer before she said it, and her sister's face became a hateful mask. "You're selfish. Your wants'll be the death of her."

The words dug into Pyrrha's chest and twisted, and she could feel despair rising in her, threatening to shatter her composure. Nothing was as it should be, and her every course was its own calamity. She couldn't bring herself to violate Daisy's mind, even for her good, and yet this weakness could only wreak greater evils in time—a horrible image came unbidden, of Daisy withering to dust in the air, scattering, nothing.

"It's not mine," Pyrrha said, her grip like iron on the chair's arms. "It's not mine to decide for her. Aradia will unmake the Vow, and then Daisy will have it all. She can choose to forget—after."

"She'll _die_ for you if you allow her!" Ashlin shouted, making Pyrrha start at a flare of heat. Her expression bled hurt. "She will! You can't protect her—you couldn't protect me! And you _still_ care nothing for me! I'm still here, _I_ know you—aren't I enough?"

"Ashlin—"

"I know what you think, and you're wrong—I'm not a curse. I was born from a curse, nothing else; I am what I am. I'm real. I love and hate you, and you love and hate me. We're sisters—proper sisters. Daisy doesn't understand you like I do. She can't."

Each beat of Pyrrha's speeding heart spread pain and love and sorrow and want—want for Ashlin's declaration to be true, because she missed her sister like nothing in the world. But the pain beating down from her scar impressed harsh reality upon her.

"She can't," Ashlin repeated, gaze imploring over Daisy's dozing form with an expression achingly familiar, full of flagging hope. Her eyes shimmered in the firelight like gems cut from the sky.

Pyrrha took a breath and hardened her heart against the apparition with all of her will, and she said gently, "We'll see."

Hell made home in her head, blistering, bleak, and it withdrew near as swiftly, the whiplash of pain an odd sort of vertigo. Ashlin's wounded countenance didn't simply vanish—she went pale and skeletal, putrefied into black death, crumbled to pieces that were swept away in a nonexistent wind.

"Oh . . ." The word escaped Pyrrha in a paroxysm of grief, and she pressed her hand to the dull pulse of the burn that mirrored her life's own.

She sat there for uncounted time. Hati nuzzled her arm and whined, and she patted him absentmindedly. The utter silence allowed all of her thoughts to blossom; she flicked her hand toward the silent fire, and it flared into a merry crackling that was utterly out of place, just across from the repose of Maven and Irving. Pyrrha contemplated their aftercare, that and one hundred other things that weren't slumped across from her.

 _"Time,"_ Ashlin said tiredly, giving Pyrrha's heart a lurch. _"Not to be wasted."_

 _Yes . . . thank you,_ Pyrrha thought back, still deciphering the leap of feeling—had it been apprehension of pain, or relief that Ashlin remained with her?

It didn't matter. What did was before her now, and she flicked her wand before she could hesitate a second longer; Daisy's eyes fluttered open, and she pushed upright with a sharp intake of breath. Worry wrung at Pyrrha's heart while she watched Daisy closely.

Daisy watched right back, and if Pyrrha hadn't known better, she might think to avert Legilimency. Daisy read only her expression as if her mind were written plainly across her face. Pyrrha yearned to break the silence, but she was determined to let Daisy steer their course. She waited under the dread settled on her shoulders like a mantle of cold stone.

Something in Pyrrha's face had given what Daisy sought; her dismay cleared somewhat, morphing into her familiar, wonderful concern.

"Pyrrha . . ." She trailed off helplessly.

All Pyrrha could say was, "I'm sorry I stunned you. I hadn't a choice."

"Yeah, well, never mind that—your room—those _bodies—?"_

"I can't—"

"—brains and hearts and a person, a prisoner—?"

"I can't, Daisy, I can't explain! Not yet." Pyrrha turned her head from her friend's betrayed gaze, the look like a knife in her. "There's something I need to do before I can speak, and then . . . then you'll have it all, as many answers as you can bear. I promise you that." There was silence, and Pyrrha's heart sank further as she added, "If you wish to go, even to forget, I—I understand."

She watched the fire dance over unblemished logs until a hand captured hers; she dragged her eyes back to Daisy, fighting the urge to snatch herself away.

"You're not a murderer," Daisy said softly, halfway a question, the other half a plea.

Pyrrha did pull away then. Here was their end, cut close by those countless victims of Leitrim, by Daisy's dear mother, and, of course, poor Ashlin. The burn bled her guilt from crown to heel, and she could only say, "I am."

The admission rang with absolute verity, but somehow, Daisy relaxed and smiled, though fraught with sadness. "No . . . I know you. I should've remembered that. You want to think you're in control of it all, that you've got all this power to make right from wrong . . ." She shook her head with sorrow. "No one can predict and prevent all the strife in this world, Pyrrha, not even you. It's not your fault."

Stunned, Pyrrha didn't dare move or speak.

Daisy added, "Whatever's going on in that room . . ." She took a steadying breath. ". . . I know it must be for the good."

Rage boiled suddenly from an unseen pit within Pyrrha. She stood abruptly, her scar pounding, and left her wand behind on the table, fighting an urge to snatch it up and ruin something; instead, she paced. She didn't deserve this wretched forgiveness—none of it was true; it _was_ all in her power, but she had failed, failed, _failed,_ and no one on earth could hold her properly accountable . . . no one save the witch she wouldn't suffer to live long enough.

"Pyrrha! Pyrrha, stop!"

She stopped and turned, and the smell of burning cotton registered. Pyrrha looked down; her robes were smoking at the hems, flecks of smouldering cloth fading from an emberlike glow into black, ragged burns as she watched. Somehow, being faced with her lost control brought it sinking back within her grasp like a switch had flipped. It wasn't calm; it wasn't anything.

"What is it?" Daisy was up and before her again, wringing her hands, eyes shining with anxiety. Pyrrha held out an arm; Daisy's hands twitched as Pyrrha received her wand and mended her robes with a wave.

"I'm sorry," Pyrrha said with a hollow chest. "I'd like to believe in what you think you see, but it's not there."

A light flickered to life beside them before Daisy could speak, and they turned to see the mess of splinters atop Eilith's desk as they tentatively caught fire, birthed from an ember cast from Pyrrha's sleeve. She waved the fire away. The charred shards left behind—once whole and wonderful—were as fitting an end to her endeavor as she could imagine.

She had stared too long. Daisy asked gently, "It . . . it was a violin, right? Or a viola? Whose was it?"

Pyrrha sighed and waved her wand as she walked past Daisy back to the fire. Wasila remained with the cauldron, Eilith with her pets. The moment to recall them would soon come; time was ever of the essence, and Aradia awaited.

Eventually, voice dragging with admission, Pyrrha said, "It was yours. For your birthday." She could feel Daisy's joy mixed with melancholy. "I'm sorry I missed you. It . . . wasn't ready."

There had always been something more she could make of it. Every new angle served to delay their meeting until the day had come and gone, and then, surely, it was best to wait for next year.

Daisy's laugh was a little watery. "Of course." Pyrrha found herself wrapped in a hug from behind, and with an odd sort of surprise came a sharp pang of hurt at the ghost of a different day.


	11. Chapter 11

"So . . . what now?" Daisy asked quietly. "Are we going after that historian?"

The common hall swam with halfhearted light seeping from ceiling spores. From the darkly dappled gold about the call mirror onward the glow intensified, the spectrum culminating in the writhing white fire that held Pyrrha's gaze. She'd often entered this refuge to see Maven staring into the flames as she was now, lips moving soundlessly, committing each vivid shift to memory as a sign for the future that had 'told her more than words ever could.'

Pyrrha saw only strife.

"Furnival, right?" Daisy's voice came somewhat tremulous in the wake of Pyrrha's admission. She'd apparently noticed; she took a quick breath and added with surety, "Before that woman gets what she needs from him."

"She's had it by now," Pyrrha said toward the fire. "She awaits word on my fate, I imagine, before she gives up her tricks." A thought struck, and she turned to approach the mirror. "I suppose I'll do her the courtesy."

"Is that a good idea?" Daisy said, hands clasped and fidgeting at her waist. "What if we tricked her, instead? Element of surprise and all that. We could make polyjuice from the . . . them." She nodded uncomfortably at the dead resting on the meeting table.

Hati yipped from his place by the fire, a noise of accord. They both glanced back at him.

Daisy smiled weakly. "That's two votes yes."

"We're not a democracy," Pyrrha said as she turned back around. She waved her wand over the round table when she passed, and the shrouded bodies there vanished, transported away. "Deceiving Aradia serves no purpose; she won't relent until she's seen me dead, and then she may strip the knowledge from Furnival for caution and secrecy. When she sees me well, she'll keep him intact in service of fear. I need only remind her what we have to gain, striving together."

"If you say so," Daisy said, sounding uneasy. She met Pyrrha's eyes in the grand mirror with anxious determination. "Should I hide myself, then?" She gestured at a corner of the room outside the mirror's view.

"Best if you wait in the hall, yes."

"What, really?" Daisy said, exasperated. "Damn it, Pyrrha, you've got to be—!"

"Please," Pyrrha added, "be patient. I'll have kept my promise by the day's end."

The thought of that looming conversation made her insides sink with sickly apprehension. One way or the other, their friendship would never again be as it was now; Daisy would either denounce her or persevere at her side, and Pyrrha didn't know which outcome was more terrible to bear.

"You bloody well better!" Daisy said. She made for a door, casting a strained backward glance on the way through. Hati stared after her for a moment before resuming the grooming of his silvery paws.

In a moment, Pyrrha took her gaze from the reflection over her shoulder and focused on the mirror itself. With her wand she drew a pattern in the air like a moth's meandering path, calling out across space to Aradia.

Like a stone dropped into a placid pond the mirror rippled, the common hall fading into fathomless dark, and Pyrrha waited before it in silence until it resolved into an elegantly appointed dwelling. There were delicately shaped wood furnishings set upon with elaborate fittings of iron and trappings of vivid fabric woven with indecipherable patterns, and a luxurious bed flanked by shelves with rooflike lanceted tops stacked with texts embossed with fine gold lettering down the spines. All was illumined from above by the gentle glow of countless candles in wrought sconces mounted across the carved oak walls. Before the vision was the resolute face of her cohort.

The change was immediately apparent at their intimate distance. Aradia's dusky countenance had an unnatural pallor, as if she had frozen to death where she stood; only her incisive eyes betrayed that notion as they raked, impassive, a moment spent lingering darkly on the scar. Her depthless brown irises were flecked with lurid crimson like unearthed shards of garnet that flickered and died at the whim of wavering light.

She'd split her soul. The realization drove the air from Pyrrha's lungs.

When she found her voice, Pyrrha said with a hint of awe, "You've foregone release."

The terminus of one with a fractured soul was no end at all, but a ceaseless existence spent senseless to anything save sundered agony. The love of a mother had conquered all dread for that calamitous fate. Pyrrha felt a brief, kindred ache in her chest; she knew what it was to sacrifice for those who mattered.

Aradia's stolid visage broke composure almost at once, twisting into deep-held enmity. Her voice flayed the air. "I have; a measure that had not been imperative until your foolhardy pursuit brought ruin upon us."

With outrage, iron reinforced Pyrrha's tone. "Don't presume to condemn me for your own decision. Foolhardy is a hastened horcrux if it's anything—such an act is never called for."

"You are not a mother," Aradia spat, and the scar was pure fire at the thought of Ashlin. "You are the very last to whom I would look for understanding, she who speaks without knowing and acts without thinking! Why have you contacted me this way, Pyrrha—why aren't you now storming our gates with eyes firmly shut?"

"I'm here to remind you of what you already know; for the sake of all, for the sake of your son, you _must_ put aside your feelings. Divided, we lose everything at stake. We can right the wrongs together—only together."

"You are mistaken yet again," Aradia said, each syllable falling like slabs of stone. "No matter the means, we will never attain that perfect end. That path has been closed to us since the very beginning; events have now made this clear to me. I will divest the world of Morrigan myself. You," she added deliberately, "are a rampant force of chaos to be corrected. Nothing more."

Wrath twisted and thrashed in Pyrrha at Aradia's gall; to give up so easily, so close to the end, was unthinkable. The turmoil under her voice seemed to shake the mirror. "There can be _no peace_ for your son without me."

"I will find another way, and if I cannot, then I will _create_ the way. Your part in this is over," Aradia said, as if it were that simple. For a moment, a subtle play of bleak emotions warped her mask of iron. "I offer you one chance, here and now, to turn away from the Cabal. Leave what remains of us outside of your machinations. I do not wish to kill you, child, for all that you've earned it."

Pyrrha leaned forward against Aradia's gaze with her palms flat on the vanity, securing the old witch in a baleful stare of her own. "I've happy news for you, then," she said. "You can't."

Aradia's expression was grim as the dead. "We will see."

She turned and strode away, leaving the mirror to sink into darkness once more. Pyrrha's reflection swam ahead from the depths to match her stare as the common hall melted in behind; over her shoulder, Hati's patient silver eyes shimmered beside the fireplace.

While Pyrrha allowed her faculties to ebb down from their tumultuous heights, she studied the twining purple scar across her head. The shining red of burned flesh had faded to a pale pink that reflected light with a glossy quality, and in the center, the black site of impact dragged at the eye like a brand.

The wire-rimmed glasses she wore gave her an unpleasant lurch in her stomach; she'd nearly forgotten the need for them. She plucked them off and was instantly adrift in an indistinct sea of color. She replaced them again with another flash of anger.

A wave of the wand cast the mirror back into its inky netherworld. Reality bloomed from the center outward once more to reveal Wasila still laboring to maintain the pervading vapors swirling around the domed ceiling. Her appearance had changed again in their brief separation; her favored pale shade of skin had returned, offset by glossy dark hair that framed newly sculpted features and vibrant blue eyes glittering with energy. Her smile was already in place, that maddening expression that seemed to flaunt secret knowledge.

"I know that face," Wasila said. "How _is_ dear Aradia? Does she still know best? I'll bet she does!"

"She's worried. Let's set her fears to rest."

"Wouldn't miss it," Wasila said, and the mirror went black.

Pyrrha turned away and flicked her wand at the door, and it swung open to reveal Daisy with her arms crossed; she started, then let her arms drop as she stepped inside, hands jumping back together like long-parted friends.

"So?" Daisy said breathlessly.

"Yes, it's time," Pyrrha said. She rounded the meeting table to stand before Daisy, looking down with all the gravity she could project; Daisy's eyes widened a little. "We're about to enter a perilous situation, and your company is against all my better judgment—perhaps that bodes well, in a twisted way, given what my judgment has wrought thus far—"

"Pyrrha—"

"—but you _must_ heed my instructions, no matter what they entail. I can keep you safe, but if you defy me—if something—something terrible happens . . ."

Her heart was like dead metal in her chest pumping chilled blood that carved down her veins with frozen shards. What she was about to allow went against every fiber of her rational self. She considered once again breaking all bonds, overtaking Daisy's will in order to safeguard her life.

 _"Don't."_ Ashlin's voice echoed with loss and regret. The blistering burn felt born anew.

"Hey," Daisy said gently, as if Pyrrha were one to need soothing; the scar seethed in time with a twist in the chest. "I trust you, and you trust me; that's why I'm still here. I'll follow your lead, Pyrrha, and I'll watch your back at the same time, and guess what? We'll come out of this alright—better than that; the blighters won't know what hit them." She grinned, and the suddenness of it jolted Pyrrha. "Remember N.E.W.T. Potions?"

Pyrrha felt faintly dizzy at a recollection of rare happiness that came utterly surreal in their present situation. Over her protestations for Daisy's marks they had partnered for the practical exam, and had proceeded to surpass all expectations under Daisy's steady guidance. Then had come the written test, and Daisy had given a sneaky smile and quietly offered her mind, free of care for the trust it implied.

 _"I don't see that it matters,"_ she'd said. _"You might as well know everything I do—you'll always have me to ask."_

Then Pyrrha had known at last what they were, had realized the conclusion of their school years wouldn't part them; her subsequent emotional lapse still conjured acute discomfiture.

"There you are. No more worries, alright?" Daisy's determined eyes glimmered with life; she drew her wand. "Let's get it done."

The door to the hall opened, and they turned. Wasila paused at the entrance, her smile adopting a mischievous shade. "Have I interrupted something?" Her brow lifted a fraction when she noticed Daisy's wand. "Is the Princess coming along as well, then?"

Daisy's wand arm twitched. "Who's that?"

"Wasila," Pyrrha said, giving the woman an irritated look.

"I strive to greet each new challenge fresh-faced. Didn't Pyrrha tell you?" There was a hint of a barb there, but Daisy didn't react beyond a frown. Wasila shrugged. "Do forgive my rhetoricals. We should get going, you know; with the time we've squandered, Aradia may well die of age before we can reach her."

With a sense of settling pressure, emotions drained from Pyrrha to leave behind an osmotic coating of perturbation under her skin as her goal came back into sharp focus. "No longer likely as you think. You'll see," she added at Wasila's inquiring look.

Pyrrha beckoned and led the way to the hearth. Hati stood and stretched his forelegs as they reached him; he looked up with eyes bright and expectant.

"Into the fire again," Pyrrha said. "Danger waits for us. Are you ready?"

Hati barked twice, deep and savage with eagerness, canines gleaming in the firelight.

A wave of Pyrrha's wand caused the fireplace to stretch and widen like a dragon's yawning maw until it was of a size to accommodate them; without ceremony she snatched up and tossed in a fistful of powder, and the flames belched emerald sparks across the dark wood floor.

"All together," Pyrrha said as she stepped within. "The trap will snap shut on the first arrival."

"No Irish goodbyes for us, then," Wasila said lightly.

Daisy drew up to Pyrrha's right, and Hati paced beside her left. Wasila stepped in primly on the wolf's other side.

The vibrant blaze licked at their legs with tongues of pleasant heat. A glance passed between Pyrrha and Daisy to convey another sort of warmth that was promptly doused by a thrill of dismay.

Pyrrha gripped the fur on Hati's broad back and held her wand ready. "Furnival residence."

* * *

The fire ejected them in a flash of neon ashes before promptly flickering out. Pyrrha advanced in front with senses attuned, then paused as she took in the space.

It was immodesty manifest, not so much a home as a grand edifice of stone that embodied an awesome cathedral of old. The far-flung hall returned their footsteps in an overlapping cascade of dull echoes, resonating between the colossal granite pillars that ribbed the sunlit chamber and stood fast under a wondrous vaulted ceiling of stained glass which captivated Pyrrha at once: the iridescent scenes depicted there were alive in their own time, bearing out momentous events of myth and legend in a contiguous sequence down along the chamber; there was Cuhulin writhing in his obscure darkness, laying waste to friend and foe alike; there was the mountainous wizard Dagda, with curse and conflict subverting the legions who sought his miraculous cauldron; and there was—

Pyrrha's heart skipped when she met the citrine eyes set not in the face of rot and ruin, but in a porcelain vision of beauty framed with wild black hair like tufted feathers dipped in ink. She stood beside a man with an auburn mane and proud features to match his bearing, and together they gazed across a raging field of battle between giants and men. Shards of ruby-hued glass splintered in all directions at each strike and curse to ravage the angular, puzzle-pieced combatants.

Wasila's voice snapped her back to awareness. "Something's off in the air."

It was immediately clear when Pyrrha tore her gaze back down; up the chamber ahead of them, colors shifted and blurred nearly imperceptibly, as if their party had stepped into a watercolor painting that had yet to dry.

"That—I've seen that before . . ." Daisy said, anxious and uncertain. She gasped and snatched at Pyrrha's rising wand arm, dragging it down. "No—no magic! Nobody cast a thing!"

"Not a thing? No cutting aspersions, or even a fleeting glance?" Wasila said as her glittering eyes swept the grandiose space, wand down at her side. "May I cast a _vote_ in favor of a ready explanation?"

Daisy's chest heaved with building panic, but her voice was steady. "That stuff in the air, it's potion fumes—emissions from a very, _very_ specific mistake in the process of brewing Kindledrake—"

Pyrrha cut her off intently: "What does it do?"

"Explodes," Daisy said breathlessly. "First hint of magic—it all explodes."

Alarm coursed through Pyrrha; they were near to stranded in the midst of an ocean of death without an oar, and clarity seemed to fade ever further even as she watched as if through welling tears. Hati growled beside her as the fumes spread like a creeping dream until it enveloped them, ensconced them in senseless color. The distinct lack of an odor unsettled her, that it was passing within her lungs and into her bloodstream entirely untraced. She slipped her wand into her pocket to forestall any reflexive action.

"Why haven't we died?" Wasila said, sounding merely curious. "It must be a simple thing to set off, surely."

"Doesn't work like that," Daisy said. She strained to catch her breath as if she'd been sprinting, rather than pacing restlessly. "Can't interact with it at all—not magically—too volatile, and the fumes propagate too quickly—they'd catch themselves in the blast if they laid a trigger. Have to find—find the cauldrons it's emitting from. I can neutralize it."

Pyrrha plunged ahead through the muddled expanse, Hati padding along beside her like a silver shadow in the obscurity. "Let's find them, then. Hurry."

The grand hall before them was a dim and sunwashed sea of the greys and whites of seamless stone architecture dotted with distant firelights that shimmered as if behind frosted glass, and it was these that guided Pyrrha ahead. Footfalls and clicking claws shattered grave silence anew with each half-certain step.

They passed looming statues settled intermittently between the chamber's ionic pillars, each hulking shape peering down with indistinct visages that still managed to convey ancient grandeur. Behind the sculptures, fluttering patches of color denoted tapestries or paintings or heraldic banners hung high. Abruptly, the rows of columns became blurred walls encroaching at half the previous distance, now blotched with identical splotches of mottled brown at precise intervals on either side: doors.

Pyrrha paused to regard the recessed portals cautiously, and Daisy spoke up.

"The cauldrons won't be through those," she said. Pyrrha could picture her strained expression behind the alchemical brume. "The vapors wouldn't have filled the air so fast by seeping between cracks. Let's keep on ahead."

The profound relief at having consented to bring Daisy built higher in Pyrrha as she led them further; Aradia had done well to exploit Byron's expertise. Never had Pyrrha encountered a phenomenon such as what swirled around them.

They advanced another dozen feet before a crash from behind stopped them in their tracks; they turned in time to watch the other doors fly open with bangs and rattles when they struck the walls until the blurs beside them swung free as well, followed by those on the path ahead all the way to the hall's end; out from each opening shambled indistinct figures with varied and unsteady gaits. They approached without a sound.

Bereft of magic, Pyrrha was at a loss. She fought down rising alarm and pulled a baying Hati with her while she drew back toward Daisy, and she thought furiously as the silent silhouettes beside them neared arm's length. Something warm was pressed into her free hand—a vial.

"Drink!" Daisy said. "We'll have to do this the muggle way."

"The muggle—what?"

A murky hand seized Pyrrha's arm in an iron grip and was torn away just as quickly; there was a blur of gold and a hideous wet shattering as the figure's head was smote from its shoulders. The thing collapsed to the floor like a discarded puppet.

"Drink and hit, Pyrrha!"

Hati snarled and dived into obscurity to bowl over an approaching shadow, and Pyrrha could hear the grunting and struggling of Daisy and Wasila, the crack and shatter of bones—she fumbled for the stopper and uncorked the vial, then downed the contents at once; the fiery liquid prickled through her sinuses as it went down with a strong coppery taste spiced with sunlight.

The rush of energy was a heady experience; Pyrrha's lungs seemed to expand and draw in every last gasp of air to fuel the fire burning through her feverish body. She felt as though she could pick someone apart with the ease she would an insect.

Cold and clammy hands wrapped around Pyrrha's neck from behind; she reached for her wand and stopped herself just in time as the hands clenched, crushing like a vise; she threw her weight forward and heaved the attacker over her bent back. The hands slipped away as together they tumbled to the stone floor, and Pyrrha coughed for breath while the thing stirred ahead of her.

Two more shades lurched in from either side. From where she sat Pyrrha kicked in the knee of one with a satisfying _crunch,_ sending the creature toppling over. She scrambled to her feet as the other swiped at her with stiff arms wielded like blunt instruments; the sluggish swings swept foul air after her as she retreated only to trip on the creature she'd immobilized, and chilled fingers clasped her arm as if to anchor her for the thing's encroaching cohorts.

Pyrrha rose to her knees and swung her unburdened arm clumsily, and the assailant's skull gave way like a rotted melon, splattering coagulated blood that pattered across the floor like putrid rain. She pried her arm from the thing's stiffened grip and regained her feet.

The air was ripe with death: the choking stench of rot, the hollow crunch of brittle bones, the hunching grey shapes that filled more space than the arcane mist. Scuffing shoes across the stone were all that escaped the wraiths while they sought out every snarl and huff of exertion from those who still breathed.

Panic seized Pyrrha; she couldn't see Daisy for the mist. A guttural growl from behind accompanied frenzied tearing, and Pyrrha strode forward, barreled into the monsters in her way and ended them each with a brutal stomp as she traversed the fog in search of shining gold.

"Daisy, tell me where you are!" Pyrrha called into the gloom.

"Here!" Daisy's voice sounded from somewhere ahead. "I'm—ah! I'm coming!"

The hushed melee played out behind curtains of mist all around as Pyrrha inexpertly fought her way onward. Every movement made felt astonishingly weightless, as if she'd newly emerged from a lifetime underwater. The grim husks scrabbling at her from the mist were no more effectual than their restful counterparts at slowing her progress. Hati darted this way and that around her, pouncing and tackling one silhouette after another and rending them apart in short order.

Another figure glided into Pyrrha's path and she swung her fist down to hammer its head; its arm shot up and caught her around the wrist with startling swiftness, arresting her strike.

"Careful there!" Wasila said. "I'm not quite dead yet. Good thing for you—did you never learn to punch someone properly?"

"Inferi." Pyrrha reclaimed her arm. "Who did they come from?" she asked, mostly of herself. Was Aradia desperate enough to murder in cold blood? A frigid feeling crept over Pyrrha's skin; the answer had already presented itself in the old witch's eyes.

Before Wasila could answer, a fuzzy patch of gold materialized from the gloom and brought half a dozen shadows shambling at her tail. Daisy panted, but the cadence meant she was breathless with exertion, not panic or pain. Her hand found Pyrrha's for a brief, crushing squeeze. By wordless consent they turned to face the shades, led into the fray by a howling flash of silver.

Hati leapt at the first inferi he could reach, bringing it down heavily with a revolting noise as his weight crushed the undead's corroded torso. Its fellows fell upon the wolf as one like insect drones driven by pheromones; Pyrrha closed the distance briskly and yanked at their moldering clothes, sending two sprawling back for their mindless skulls to meet the heel of her boot. The pack turned on her, but Daisy and Wasila fell upon them from behind, and together they fought amidst the blinding miasma. Curdled gore showered Pyrrha's robes and suffused the air with rancid decay. As the final inferi fell she restrained herself from a reflexive, cleansing wave of the hand; her heart pounded at the near miss.

Only their labored breathing disturbed the silent aftermath. They turned about, loosely back-to-back, fruitlessly surveying the impenetrable wash of colors they were immersed in. Hati prowled circles around them as a softly clicking silver ghost. The mist shifted in a way unlike any natural fog; it was like all light was broken apart into limitless pieces no larger than grains of sand, and it all sifted itself around as if in search for the pattern that would make it whole again.

There were no more lurching figures, no more scuffing shoes on stone. The doors flanking their huddle had closed of their own accord. Pyrrha's limbs still buzzed with energy and tension; in the fleeting interstitium between the creatures' arrival and her imbibing of the vial's contents, she'd been utterly powerless. Nullified. Nausea clutched at her insides with noxious claws as a worthless man's lost expression intruded in her head.

Beside Pyrrha, Daisy bent double and retched. Pyrrha gathered her hair back as she expelled the contents of her stomach over the mess of viscera at their feet.

"You'd think a potioneer would be inoculated to pungent smells," Wasila said with a hint of amusement.

"The smell is the least of it," Pyrrha snapped. She felt the need to strike back; she knew Wasila hated when doubt was cast onto the facade she presented. "I'd sooner think on why you _aren't_ disturbed—that paints a more perplexing picture."

The good cheer was gone from Wasila's voice, leaving it eerily flat, without affect. "Better for all involved if you rein in that reckless curiosity of yours, wouldn't you say?" The barb was unmistakable; the scar burned.

"Stop—" Daisy broke off to cough hoarsely as she straightened up "—stop that, both of you. It's really not the time."

"Are you alright?" Pyrrha said, squinting into the gloom. Even mere feet apart, she couldn't make out a single detail of Daisy's face.

"I am now," Daisy said. "I'll be even better when we counteract this bloody mist. It's thicker here; we were headed in the right direction."

"Yes . . . toward the firelights," Pyrrha agreed. "Stay vigilant."

She took the lead once again in the pursuit of the hall's end. They carefully chose their way over the broken bodies that lay bathed in the static blur, their stench like a tangible membrane stretching thinner and thinner as they pushed on ahead.

The torchlights swelled beneath the haze like hinkypunks' lanterns until Pyrrha reached the hall's end, marked by the disappearance of the close walls back into obscurity. If Furnival's home adhered to typical cathedral architecture, they had just arrived at the apse; the notion was reinforced by the relative distances of the surrounding firelights which hinted at the chamber's semicircular nature. The hemispherical ceiling was solid stone; feeble sunlight crawled in from beyond the preceding hall's exquisite mosaics to die at the apse's dim threshold.

The air was thick with heat. At the room's center was another statuesque outline leaning over twin fires that burned at the heart of the fog. Their corresponding cauldrons hung suspended from something Pyrrha couldn't make out, regurgitating grainy mist in great, stuttering gouts. Crackling flames worried at the quiet.

When they drew up to the burbling cauldrons, the catch became apparent; the vessels were hung at each end of a perfectly balanced brass scale sized to accommodate their considerable weight. Hati sniffed at the scale's circular base warily.

"Well, that's damned clever," Daisy said with a frustrated huff. "It's going to take both of us in perfect synch; I'll bet even the most subtle weight disparity sends them crashing down. The discipline to proportion them so exactly . . . it's impressive."

Wasila rounded the cauldrons with lazy steps that fell without sound. "I don't imagine we could simply let them spill from a safe distance?"

"Not if you want to keep your skin," Daisy said, a brief shudder passing over her. Curious, Pyrrha reached out and caught a flash of memory; a man writhing on a gurney and howling in agony, his flesh resembling bubbling red wax. "That stuff hits the fires, we're finished. I—we can stop it, we only need . . ."

Daisy's vague outline shifted as she rummaged through something on her person. Mutterings passed just under hearing while she drew out clinking jars and vials and clattering wooden cases; the commingled sharp scents of herbs and extracts drifted about. A steady stream of instructions followed, relayed in a calm and assured voice as Daisy pressed ingredients into Pyrrha's hands, the litany peppered with emphatic encouragements that betrayed her nerves.

"It's got to be _exact,_ Pyrrha," Daisy said. "It's got to be perfect. We can do this."

"Can you?" Wasila said from a distance. "The degree of accuracy you're aiming for is inhuman, really . . . there must be some way to tilt things in our favor."

"We can't use magic," Daisy said. She paced restlessly before the righthand cauldron, and Pyrrha could hear her patting at her pockets, triple-checking the components gathered at the ready.

Grave quiet enveloped them as they considered their limited options. Wasila had retreated nearly beyond perception, a fuzzy patch of color leaning beside one of the many doors lining the preceding hall. Daisy kept pacing, kept muttering, and her blurred hands were never still, shifting round each other and parting to gesticulate, to articulate alchemical considerations that escaped Pyrrha's comprehension.

Pyrrha's mind labored at the problem before them. She felt thoroughly disarmed; without magic she was alone with her mind, powerless to bend the world to her will. They were at the mercy of their own wits and materials, their collective potioneering prowess.

The theories, the principles of potion brewing remained with her, retained as with all worthwhile knowledge, but she'd never possessed the intuitive spark of understanding that came naturally to Daisy. Pyrrha lacked the same instinctual notions of action and reaction. It wouldn't get them anywhere for her to venture for solutions; in all likelihood Daisy was far ahead of her already, and further than she could hope to go. Magic was where she drew her strength.

A swoop of vertigo accompanied the flash of inspiration that sparked in Pyrrha; she'd already used magic without thinking, and it hadn't registered with the mist. It seemed wandless Legilimency had negligible impact on the physical plane.

 _"Lucky for us,"_ Ashlin murmured. _"Wasila had a point about that curiosity, you know."_

"I believe I have a solution," Pyrrha said. Daisy stopped and spun around expectantly. "Do _you_ remember N.E.W.T. Potions, Daisy?"

Daisy was silent for a moment before letting out a delighted laugh. "That's—yes, that's brilliant! There's no tangible change that way—nothing for the blasted fog to react to. Oh, thank God for your brain."

"It's yours that'll extricate us. A moment, and you can lead us through the steps."

"Right, right, just let me . . ."

Pyrrha nodded, then remembered the fog. "Of course." After a few moments, she added, "Though it isn't necessary. Even were our attentions not singularly focused, I wouldn't pry."

"I know that," Daisy said with a hint of admonition. "And you know the unprepared might let something slip regardless."

Amusement colored Pyrrha's tone. "Are you hiding something from me, Daisy?" she asked rhetorically.

Daisy chuckled. "You're damned right, and you've got precisely zero room for objection."

"I'm all for levity in the face of death," Wasila called, "but not when it's my own, as it turns out. Have you any ideas?"

"We'll need your help," Daisy called back.

Daisy directed them to arrange a small variety of brewing components at the base of the scale, precisely between the cauldrons; they were fumblingly composed into the order they would be required. Authoritatively bidden, Wasila knelt there beside their careful arrangement in readiness to pass along herbal compounds and extracts and raw ingredients expertly prepared. The unmitigated heat of the fires swept past them in a continuous and sluggish wave, drawing forth beads of sweat it could only claim partial credit for.

Pyrrha and Daisy took a cauldron each, and at Daisy's cue Pyrrha reached out and caught tenuous hold of Daisy's conscious thoughts. The process began at someone's bracing breath. Pyrrha immersed herself in Daisy's patterns of thought and allowed the eavesdropped mental directives to guide her hands; in flawless unison they combined blisterbee honey with ground eola root and dripped the mixtures in three careful drops at a time. As one they passed their spent droppers to Wasila, who exchanged them for a particolored array of vials that bubbled or steamed or puffed sweet smoke when uncorked.

The churning substance in Pyrrha's cauldron darkened from orange to ochre as they labored. She suppressed the urge to glance away, to ensure she'd matched Daisy's progress; instead she followed another notion without quite knowing why, unstoppering a vial of tarry black liquid and pouring in only a third of it—she was nebulously certain any more would catalyze a troublesome reaction. Next went a splash of mooncalf tears and two full bottles of tempor sand tipped in with the left hand. A startling chill rolled from the cauldrons while they settled and passed from ochre to teal, and Daisy whispered something too softly to hear, but Pyrrha knew she'd said 'nearly there.'

The vibrant concoction began to fizz. The sight engendered sourceless alarm in Pyrrha; it was inexplicably imperative she introduce the ashes of a centennial phoenix, and she said as much to Wasila at the same instant Daisy did. Everything hung in the balance for a heart-stopping few seconds until they were provided for; they cast down the ashes in a perfect mirror movement, and the brew settled after a sharp, short hiss. Smoke ceased to billow as if it had been choked back. The surface of the potion paled into a grimy grey, patched with floating ashes like scraps of pond scum. An eye-watering smell akin to melting rubber stained the air.

At Daisy's burst of triumph Pyrrha gently withdrew herself, sinking into her own mixture of victorious relief and apprehension for what may come next. It didn't quite feel like she'd dodged death yet again, though she certainly had; the time spent with her mind mingled with Daisy's had left little room for anything that wasn't the next logical step. Pyrrha imagined it was a state of mind of a kind with what she felt, and didn't feel, in the thick of a deadly duel.

Hati paced between them excitably, panting against the sweltering heat, and Wasila sat back with a disgruntled noise as the wolf scattered her carefully arranged ingredients.

"That's done it," Daisy said with a disbelieving laugh. "We've neutralized them. That was—Pyrrha, that was . . ."

"It was," Pyrrha said. She allowed a bit of pride into her tone. "You saved our lives. Well done."

"Yeah, well—I mean, not quite yet, the fumes still need to dissipate, but . . . yeah," Daisy said faintly, "I guess I did."

"My eternal gratitude." Wasila managed to sound vaguely sarcastic as she rose to her feet. "How do we proceed? Shall we parade our unblemished bodies through the corridors until we spring the next trap?"

"We'll wait for the dissolution of the mist," Pyrrha said. "When we're free to work magic, we can find Aradia in an instant. She won't flee; she wants to see this through."

Wasila hummed thoughtfully, waving at the miasma that steadily thinned around them. "She can manipulate her lifesign—obscure it, project it elsewhere. I don't know how," she added, correctly anticipating Pyrrha's response. "Wish I did. Eminently useful ability, that."

The news was invaluable and unsurprising; Aradia had an affinity for souls, just as Pyrrha did for blood. Aside from Morrigan, she was perhaps the most dangerous individual Pyrrha could name.

"Can she do the same for Byron?" Pyrrha said.

"I don't know. When I asked, she made it out to be prohibitively difficult, and far more so regarding the soul of another."

"You believe her?"

Wasila chuckled softly. "I believe her assertion of the challenge it poses, yes. Do I believe the insinuation that she can't manage it? Most certainly not."

"Well, like Pyrrha said, she wants to be found, right?" Daisy said. "Wants it over with. No reason to hide, in that case."

"Of course there is," Wasila said. "Luring us into another ambush, in the main."

"I doubt she can put together anything worse than this," Daisy said, gesturing at the inert cauldrons. "I guarantee this setup took loads of time and effort, even discounting those . . . corpses. In fact, they'd just finished setting it off as we arrived, hadn't they?"

"Aradia's prowess rivals my own. Don't disregard any possibility where she's concerned," Pyrrha said. She bent down and began gathering up the materials left unused, and Daisy knelt beside her to help, dropping each case and bottle into the charmed pockets of her robes.

"Although," Pyrrha added as she handed Daisy the last quivering drawstring bag, "you could be correct. If I hadn't brought you, surpassing this wouldn't have been possible. My enlisting aid is the last thing she's expecting."

The fog hadn't quite dispersed, painting Daisy's expression into an abstract, blurry frown. "What would you have done? If I hadn't . . . ?"

"The explosion would've killed me," Pyrrha said matter-of-factly. She felt the outside tremor of distress as she stood and helped Daisy to her feet. Her answer was a brief, reassuring squeeze of the hand before letting go; gestures often served better than words in comforting her friend. "Don't dwell on what didn't happen."

"Wise words," Wasila drawled. She sauntered the length of the room and back, gracefully restless; she waved irritably at the waning mist. "This bloody hazard just won't abate, will it? Kindledrake, you called it?" she added offhandedly.

"That's what it came from, yeah." Daisy petted Hati's pale head while the wolf considered her with a bemused look. "When I was in training to heal, we treated a man for burns from the same sort of botched brew; he was involved in dragon husbandry, I think. The potion's supposed to be a nutritional supplement of sorts—like baby formula for dragons, you know?"

"I do," Wasila said. "Remarkable that you remembered how to neutralize it—what did it take, exactly? I'm afraid I missed a few steps, and it's certainly worth knowing after all this."

The subsequent explanation passed several minutes of time while Pyrrha thought; she'd already learned what was needed from Daisy in the process of their concerted effort. Morrigan consumed her attention, latched onto her consciousness like a leech. Excitement and satisfaction filled her at the notion of what she may learn of her enemy from Twyford Furnival. The tale in the book had had as much truth to it as Wasila's lighthearted masquerade, but unlike Wasila, Morrigan's story was ready and waiting to be absorbed. Pyrrha had but to make her inquiries.

The mist had faded to a thin film, a gritty filter cast over the room. Pyrrha could make out details: twelve burning torches ringed the room, mounted high enough to flicker just below the intricate scrollwork across the walls, bas-relief spiral patterns that marked the boundary between the top of the walls and the bottom of the domed ceiling's curve. A formidable wrought iron chandelier crowned the room; unlit, it appeared as an esoteric instrument of torture.

The towering statue bearing over them was that of a robed and hooded woman, her expression tender, almost loving, as if she were leaning over the cradle of her own child. Blemishes marred her face, pitted scabs that appeared like the sculptor had suffered a bout of malice, sullied her features with lifelike precision after the fact. The witch clutched her wand at her waist with both hands in a manner not unlike Daisy's; from her hands' positions she might have been wringing it, or preparing to snap it in two.

"Might we move on yet?" Wasila said after discussion had lulled. "It seems to be clearing up nicely, at last."

"Give it another minute," Daisy said. "The air won't quite explode anymore, but it'll catch fire. We'll be safe when we can distinguish the fine hairs on our fingers." She approached Pyrrha's side and joined her in considering the statue before them. "D'you recognize her?"

"The Blighted Bride," Pyrrha said. The tale weighed on her heart to remember. "She was a prolific witch known foremost as a healer, but she was also a builder, arbiter, protector—whatever needs beleaguered the downtrodden, it was she who fulfilled them. Her magnanimity didn't prevent her from making enemies, however. Perhaps it was even the reason why."

"The reason why . . . ?" Daisy repeated. She gave a quiet noise of realization when Pyrrha waved a hand at the witch's pocked visage. "Someone cursed her?"

Pyrrha nodded grimly. "On her wedding day. She became a walking plague in the midst of everyone she held dear and countless guests beholden to her. She was the sole survivor, or so the tale goes. It's that day alone she's remembered for in wizarding Ireland's histories; her great works are dust."

"That's horrible," Daisy said, looking faintly ill. Her hands wrung. "What—?"

"Anyone who meant her a life of misery," Wasila said from behind them, "could've simply let the ceremony proceed. Sounds to me as if they were _all_ targeted. Any knowledge of the caster?"

Pyrrha turned with Daisy to see Wasila watching them with an air of interest. The chamber's atmosphere had cleared at last; past Wasila, the grand hall's stone foundations shimmered with a pale play of broken patches of light in every shade, emulating the movements of the charmed mosaics above. A set of arched double doors worthy of Hogwarts secured the far end of the voluminous building, so distant it could be fully obscured by an outstretched fingertip.

At Wasila's prompting eyebrow, Pyrrha said, "The fog is gone; so should we be. Aradia isn't sitting idle."

Two spots of light twinkled at Pyrrha's spell, and she led them from the apse without another word, heart thumping; the absence of a third life didn't bode well for Furnival. She knew Aradia had merely hidden him away, but doubt niggled at her at the thought of those stony, red-flecked eyes. Pyrrha brushed the notion away with a contingency; if Furnival had died, she would instead carve what she needed from Aradia's mind like an adze.

Corpses littered the corridor's floor like discarded dolls, shattered and splayed and riven of worldly dignity. Pyrrha paced thoughtfully among them and charmed their stench from the air as she examined them, the aftermath of Aradia's craft. What remained of the rotted figures indicated a few commonalities. Their robes meant they were wizards and witches all, and by their shabby quality, none of the victims had been particularly prosperous. A limited range of ages hid beneath their veneer of decay, difficult to postulate with any accuracy, but none had advanced beyond forty years.

"What are you looking for?" Daisy asked, following Pyrrha's roaming gaze, her lips drawn thin. "You don't think Furnival . . . ?"

"No."

Pyrrha knelt beside the body of a man with a cracked skull, his bloodless face locked in a taut grimace. Wiry stubble did nothing to hide deathly hollow cheeks. Dark magics clung to the corpse, spells that had safeguarded the empty flesh from the erosion of time. Hati sniffed at the cadaver, bright eyes narrowed.

Daisy crouched and gingerly lifted the man's sleeve; the bones of his arm and wrist protruded under pale, papery skin.

"He's malnourished," Daisy said quietly.

"He's dead," Wasila said, nonplussed.

"He _was_ malnourished," Daisy amended. She peered around at the ruined bodies. "I think . . . I think they all were."

A flash of thought captured Pyrrha, and the indications fell neatly into place. She reached out and pressed her fingers to the man's cold, stiff lips, and pulled them apart to expose sickly grey gums and gritted yellow teeth. The canines were unnaturally long and sharp—the piercing fangs of a predator.

"Vampires?" Wasila surveyed the massacre with renewed interest. "Curious. Whatever does she have against the wretched things?"

Pyrrha stood and drew her wand again. "One way to know."

Guided by magics, they left the carnage behind and chose the proper door from the hall into a labyrinth of finely furnished rooms in a range of sizes and purposes, all sharing the smooth, sharp curvature and carved stonework Furnival was clearly enamored of. Through a sitting room and past a smoking lounge they traversed with caution, caution rewarded several times over as they dispersed the cursework laid in their way with patient counteraction.

The impediments left behind made a sure trail, even were Aradia to obscure her existential mark. They crept between eclectic treasures floating over granite pedestals in what appeared to be some sort of gallery, lit low by cold blue fires. The items on display were deceptively mundane—a knotted old wand here, a spade or a lorgnette there—but a passing look at the plaques set beneath them revealed their commonality; each object seemed to have once belonged to some prominent figure of distant history.

Wall-to-wall paintings greeted them in the next chamber, quite literally; their occupants launched into an uproar that drowned out all sense before the door had even closed behind Pyrrha.

"—strangers wandering about unattended—"

"—stained my canvas with his grubby hand, look—"

"—not invited—"

"—done to poor Dextra, she's not—"

Pyrrha swept her wand in a snatching motion; pale wisps flickered from the portraits' mouths to evaporate like breath in winter, and the room fell silent.

It appeared they had entered one sweeping wing of another, more elaborate gallery. In accordance with the previous, the room was scarcely lit, details drowned in halfhearted darkness. This time the glow shone from the paintings' white-gold frames to permeate the space with dreary, clinical light that was absorbed by rich purple carpeting, dark wood walls and the black expanse of the ceiling that soared out of sight. Rope barriers of velvet and brass encircled the immediate viewing spaces (each furnished with chairs of inviting quality), leaving one nonetheless expansive walkway down the middle of the chamber, terminating in an intersection.

The paintings' occupants glared daggers at Pyrrha as she led the way ahead, footsteps muffled; the mute hostility lent the silence an oppressive weight. She felt Daisy shiver just behind her. The beginnings of a deep growl rumbled in Hati's chest, and he returned the glares in kind as they passed.

"An unsettling reversal of roles," Wasila murmured, sounding more amused than disturbed.

Aradia's imprint led them down the intersection's lefthand hallway, a candlelit passage decked with aromatic potted plants and spun glass chandeliers that shifted languidly into a pattern of configurations; pristine pyramids dripped upward into fractured hourglass shapes, then unfolded into sunbursts backlit by flitting fairies that darted around the ceiling, peeking around behind their floating glass playgrounds as Pyrrha passed beneath them. From the corner of her eye, she saw Daisy give the shy waifs a parting wave.

The hall emptied them into another wing of the gallery. It was a grand space, clearly a position of honor for the finest portraits Furnival could claim. The chamber was circular with a domed ceiling carved of pale stone. A glass enclosure dominated the center; affixed to a low platform by a band of gold, it was wide and tall as the trunk of a centennial tree and infinitely less uniform, spiraling and twisting upon itself as it rose, giving the appearance of interlaced crystal that shifted and wove into an array of changing patterns, just as the earlier chandeliers had.

Inside the turning glass was a garden of sorts, though the mottled brown bushes twitching within hardly harmonized with the chamber's grandiose aesthetic. Illumination came from the hundreds of starflies that flittered throughout the enclosure among the shrubs that were their sustenance. The insects emitted lovely white light that subtly swished with the swarm's maneuvers, suffusing the chamber from the dome to the gleaming black marble floor.

"A bachelor's notion of opulence," Wasila said, eyeing the spectacle with a hint of condescension. "Like a child designing their own racing broom."

"Every room in this place looks completely different," Daisy agreed, rather wide-eyed. "He's got a talent for transfiguration, though."

"By your standards, perhaps."

Pyrrha crossed to the center of the room and examined the portraits hung around the outskirts, next to elegant settees flanked by silver smoking stands and liquor cabinets; Furnival was obviously a man who delighted in the company afforded by his portraits.

There were four of them, spaced around in an equidistant four-point orientation, and they watched Pyrrha as mutely as had the others, though she hadn't yet silenced them. Evelyn Dextra was among them; a prominent serial murderer of the previous century, she was renowned for intercepting and slaughtering dozens upon dozens of Azkaban's worst en route to and from the island bastille. The witch stared at Pyrrha with an oddly blank expression, though utterly affixed, as if she were Imperiused. A glance around confirmed the same enthralled state of the other three.

"Yes—something's wrong, how novel." Wasila gestured with her wand, and her eyes flew wide: "Watch it!"

Pyrrha had already felt the preemptive tingle of an incoming spell; with a fluid motion she drew up the marble floor around her into a wavering shell that rippled with the screaming impact of two curses; flashes of keening light burst from behind where Wasila and Daisy engaged their own opponents. The portraits' occupants had stepped from their frames into the third dimension easily as a doorway.

The attentions of two were fixed on Pyrrha; she let the risen floor sink flat as jagged arcs of crimson crawled across it like seeping lightning; with a whirl she twisted space, and a curse curved by as the burning arcs were guided toward Dextra. Reality reverted with a dizzying snap while Pyrrha sent curses ripping through the air toward the more distant wizard; a dazzling spark of red drew her attention as the arcs were broken with a screech; the air grew thick, and transfigured predators lunged.

Pyrrha's flick and gesture freed the air and birthed a radiant violet nova overhead; lions and leopards were torn from the floor along with the wizard, a second too slow to counter, and Dextra reclaimed full attention with a whipcrack of pale negative space. The lash hummed hollowly as Pyrrha turned it aside; it swept through the flesh amalgam that had landed, scoring them with pristine furrows, then slashed back; Pyrrha snared it with a charm like sentient color streaming down the whip's length until Dextra shattered the spell, snatching back her wand arm.

A bolt of lightning followed up before the witch could react, and instead of flashing through, Pyrrha maintained the current; Dextra jerked and thrashed, rooted to the spot while the burning air crackled; a swipe hurled the witch headfirst into the stone wall with a lifelike crunch of ruined vertebrae.

Whirling around, Pyrrha rounded the chamber's centerpiece with quick strides and beheld the other side; Wasila waved her wand across one empty portrait with desperate speed, fruitlessly, the occupant nowhere to be seen; Daisy parried and countered curses from a burly wizard with a thick black beard. Hati lay prone nearby, unmoving.

With a swift wave Pyrrha shattered the shifting glass enclosure and sent the flurry of shards surging; they curved neatly around a startled Daisy and disintegrated to glittering grit at the wizard's motion; instantly the debris reformed into knives the wizard vanished with a wild swipe, and he toppled backward when Daisy's curse caught him in the face.

Through an agitated cloud of starflies Pyrrha saw Wasila engaged in combat again, the opponent seeming to have emerged from nowhere; she spared Pyrrha half a harried glance as she neatly redirected split tongues of flame. "The paintings!" she cried.

The occupants were reforming from within their paintings—clarity came not a moment too soon. Pyrrha spun back around; the enclosure's shrubs had grown into long lashing vines barbed with wicked thorns. Dextra and the wizard advanced with flitting wands and blank faces.

Dappled white light danced wildly with the swarm as Pyrrha parried spells and slashing plants, twined the thorny vines into one and swung the tendril low; it came apart against the intercepted curses, sparing the second Pyrrha needed to uplift the soil and surround the two in a storm of dirt that dispersed the next moment with a rush of wind. The pair launched into a counterattack, and their spells passed through Pyrrha's mirror shadow.

She struck from the side, still moving; a brilliant green curse took the wizard on his shoulder, and he burst into dust and sparks; Dextra narrowly defended with a summoned settee, the flare of emerald obscuring violet fire streaking beneath like a serpent to coil around her legs. Dextra swiped desperately at the flames as Pyrrha curved them about the witch's torso with an ascending twirl of the wand; the witch met Pyrrha's eyes and shrieked until the curse curled around her head and went up in fleeting smoke, leaving only ashes.

A roaring blaze sprung up somewhere, a brilliant rushing plume of light that emitted a fierce wave of heat as Pyrrha met Dextra's painting. The room's swirling wash of luminous white had dimmed to a few faint, fluttering patches; the starflies had been incinerated, sinking the chamber into twilight.

A hand brushed across the rough canvas told Pyrrha enough in the peculiar tingle up her fingers. She made a complicated gesture; a colorless shine pressed in from the picture's surface to pass through the painted scene like a grand spotlight; a half-formed Dextra cringed away and ducked out of frame.

Pyrrha turned sharply and at range made the same of the wizard's portrait. From the other side of the chamber's ruined enclosure, a wizard was bellowing in anger or pain; Pyrrha quickly crossed to the middle of the room and mounted the low, empty central platform; she evaluated the scene through alternating dusk and brief burning light.

Daisy weaved and ducked around darting spells with prompt responses assayed, but the duel's momentum was steadily shifting against her; Wasila fared better, but her face was singed, strained with exertion, and the manifest portraits seemed never to tire.

Pyrrha pressed her wand to her throat, and her voice echoed off the walls, over the mayhem: "Find cover."

She didn't wait to ensure they heeded her; a precise flourish sent perfect shade blooming from her wand until nothing was anywhere, and everywhere was endless. All she could hear was the rush of blood in her head, the blood flowing from her to the tip of her wand; stark red light imposed itself over the pitch black canvas to paint the scene crimson, the sanguine spell shining for her eyes alone.

Daisy huddled over Hati's unconscious form, her raised wand emitting a barrier; she looked around blindly, frightfully. Wasila had vanished, and the rubious silhouettes of the portraits ventured indirectly toward Daisy, their attempts at charmed light swallowed by the dark; not even lifesigns could flourish within the spell's suffocating grip.

Pyrrha stalked toward the wizards with footsteps utterly soundless and took aim; the Killing Curse flew twice without light, one passing through an upheld barrier, and the wizards crumbled to crimson-tinted dust without so much as a whisper in the void.

As if reality itself had startled awake, the room tore back into existence when Pyrrha released her spells; the assault on the senses was briefly disorienting, faintly sickening. The vital red light from her wand winked out and relief blossomed from the tightness in her chest, echoed readily by an all-encompassing ache that sunk to the bones like a deathly illness. A sluggish upward gesture sent a more natural light soaring up to bob around the domed ceiling, relieving the room of its gloom.

As Pyrrha passed, Daisy dropped her charm and stared after her in something like shock. The expression gave Pyrrha a twinge of unease as she thought what Daisy might make of the display. She contented herself that it had been the safest, most expedient route. At their rate of progress, there would be little to no time to consult Furnival with any thoroughness. The plan had amended; the historian would have to undertake an unplanned trip.

The decision was reached as Pyrrha unmade the curses on the two remaining portraits while Wasila peered curiously over her shoulder.

They made their way back to Daisy across the devastated chamber; the walls reverberated with their footsteps against the marble, a hollow echo after the former chaos. Beside Daisy, Hati's chest rose and fell, and something in Pyrrha lightened with relief.

"I did all I could, Pyrrha, I tried, but that . . . _thing,_ it wouldn't let up." From where she knelt Daisy stroked the wolf's silver mane, expression laden with guilt. "He took a nasty hit from a banished liquor cabinet, and then a curse while he was down—bloody animal." She glowered at the aforementioned wizard's empty painting. "The curse didn't seem to do much; I've checked him over, and apart from the battering, he's alright."

"His being is deeply attuned to magic," Pyrrha said. "I'd imagine he's near enough to a stunted giant in terms of resilience to direct spellwork." The invasive arts she'd once utilized notwithstanding.

"Explains why I can't revive him. His breathing's quickening, at any rate; he'll come to soon." Daisy stood and turned to face Pyrrha fully, her eyes shining with an indecipherable mix of fervent emotions. "I can't believe we made it through all this, and it isn't even over . . . are you okay? You're pale," she added.

"I'm fine, and you're right; this is far from finished," Pyrrha concurred. She informed them of their elapsing time, and advised of their adjusted objective; Wasila shrugged in assent, while Daisy appeared uneasy at the thought of removing Furnival from his home.

"We'll be doing him a favor, it's a bit of an eyesore at the moment," Wasila said, looking around at the smoky, debris-littered warzone made of the gallery. "Not that our accommodations have fared much better of late," she added, a little less lively. "I do wonder how the old bird'll react."

Apprehension and helpless frustration stirred in Pyrrha, mixed with a tinge of guilt. Maven and Irving weighed on her, though consigned to the background of her concerns, but their untimely ends were certain to disturb Aradia, who had long tended her Cabal like a domineering matriarch.

With a deep intake of breath, Hati roused himself at their feet; he sat up and gave a vigorous shake of his head, then stared around at them with silvery eyes narrowed. Daisy uttered a pleased chuckle and patted the wolf's muzzle gingerly.

"Don't worry," Daisy said. "You fought like hell, and that's all we'll ever say about it."

Hati's chest rumbled, almost surly.

 _"Time,"_ Ashlin whispered, with a chastising flare of heat. _"Wasting time."_

Pyrrha could almost feel Morrigan's distant approach as a bleak looming feeling in her heart, a feeling she wasn't certain was entirely imagined. The chamber seemed impossibly wide as she turned and traversed the scattered wreckage toward the arched oak door behind which awaited Byron and Aradia.

"Keep alert," Pyrrha called over her shoulder to the sets of footsteps behind her. "This is where our task takes a turn for the difficult."


	12. Chapter 12

The door groaned open, heaving against steady wind. Pyrrha emerged onto a broad stone terrace jutting from the cathedral, its waist-high parapets flanking the entrance and curving inward to meet at the furthest point opposite the doors, lending the courtyard an arched shape. Over the walls, the Irish countryside sprawled green and gold shot through with veins of crystal blue, resplendent as any landscape could be, and above it all was a flawless sky deep with tranquil hues the eye could admire for hours.

The beauty was lost on Pyrrha, whose gaze was fixed on the two figures ahead that were already facing her in anticipation. Stood across the terrace were Aradia and Twyford Furnival.

The chill wind whistled against the silence as Pyrrha advanced past two wide and bare stone pedestals to the center of the courtyard with her wand held at her side; the clicking behind her denoted Wasila, Daisy and Hati close behind. They stopped when she did, and for a moment, nothing.

Furnival looked as Pyrrha remembered him from what few brief meetings they'd had in her father's company; he was older, more grey, but his well-groomed beard ever contrasted with the thinned hair that wreathed his head and stirred wispily in the breeze. He took a few tentative steps forward—Aradia tensed—and he squinted through his gold monocle at Pyrrha; the optic nearly fell loose when his eyes widened in recognition.

 _"This_ is yer 'dangerous individual?' Young Pyrrha Clay, a grown woman! Whatever are ya doin'—good lord!" Furnival's stare was ensnared by the scar. "My dear girl, yer face—what's happened t'ya?"

Wasila stepped forward and placed a hand on Pyrrha's shoulder briefly; she wanted the chance to steer the confrontation. Aradia looked on with the barest hint of surprise directed at Pyrrha's company.

"Sounds like Aradia's kept you quite in the dark, sir," Wasila said. "Please make your way over to us, if you would, and we'll see to it you're kept safe from this intruder."

 _"You_ are the intruders here," Aradia declared, red-flecked eyes glinting. "Depart now, or be cast wandless from the walls; I leave it to you, one final time."

"Now hold yer bleedin' horses, woman!" Furnival said. "Ent havin' nobody thrown from me terrace—not 'specially John Clay's little tyke!"

"That child exists no longer," Aradia snapped. "She's become a danger to everything around her—you must heed me. Stand back."

"Who's dangerous?" Wasila said. "You're the one making threats, even attempts on our lives, while we've only come seeking Mr. Furnival's peerless historical acumen to assist in combating a grave threat. Did Aradia tell you _that,_ Mr. Furnival?"

"The Morrigan . . . aye, she did," Furnival said, sounding as though he were containing perverse excitement. "The Nightmare Queen, alive—alive and _free,_ no bloody less!"

"For the one who unleashed her upon us, you need look no further," Aradia spat, flicking her wrist at Pyrrha.

"It was a mistake," Pyrrha said before Wasila could speak. "I can't take it back. All I can do is what I'm doing now; searching for answers, that I might finish what I started."

"There's no call for this hostility, Aradia," Wasila added. "We want the same thing."

"You've put our confederates to _death!"_ Aradia said, voice trembling with outrage that rattled the air. "Hundreds of muggles! Exposed us to scrutiny! There is every call for the erasure of your _stain_ on all that we were!"

"Murdered . . . ?" Furnival trailed off, looking horrified, disbelieving. "No, surely not—?"

"Pyrrha murdered no one," Wasila said, her tone somehow making the idea seem ridiculous. "The fire came of Morrigan, and the colleagues you regard so dearly were killed in self-defense while carrying out _your own instructions._ Pyrrha and I made every attempt at reason, but their fear of you won out."

"Well, there!" Furnival seized onto the explanation with relief. "That young fella, Byron? Didn't he say much the same—reasonable, he said, too rational to be all fire and vengeance, like ya claim! So let's everyone just _calm down_ an' talk this out, right? Whatever the bloody backward-gallopin' _fuck_ this is!"

Aradia ignored the man, dark eyes fixed on Pyrrha. "You're not so skilled a deceiver as Wasila, so tell me yourself; did you try to spare them, truly? With all in your power?"

"I did," Pyrrha said. It was the simple truth.

"She fought Eilith into submission and extracted a Vow," Wasila added. "Set to expire with Morrigan. This, when killing her outright carried infinitely less risk. Contact the woman yourself if you doubt me."

Aradia conjured a hand mirror and spoke softly into it as it hovered before her, low enough for her to keep watch over the rim; her murky eyes swept over each of them in turn. Hati growled low in his chest at Pyrrha's side, fur bristling. It was one tense minute before the answer came.

"What the hell do you want?" There were sounds of scuffing dirt and weighty footsteps, coupled with Eilith's clicks and hisses as she put some creature through instruction.

"Pyrrha spared you."

Eilith didn't reply, instead proceeding to chastise her beast with a series of ticking noises.

Furnival glanced back and forth between both parties, and he edged away from Aradia with all the subtlety in his power, looking hopelessly lost and more than a little worried. It was a tangled situation even for those informed; Pyrrha couldn't imagine what might be taking place in the historian's thoughts, but she didn't have to; she could feel the low current of exhilarated dread coursing among thoughts of Morrigan, and the mix of bewilderment and suspicion directed at Pyrrha, tinged faintly with nostalgic fondness.

The creature at the other side of the mirror whined at the pitch of perpetually shattering glass and seemed to hurl enormous volumes of dirt, told by the sweeping, raining sounds emitting over muted gouging, and wordless remonstrations followed while Aradia awaited elaboration.

When Eilith finally restored obedience to the beast, she only said, "Anything else?"

Aradia vanished the mirror. Her pallid countenance was twisted with rage. "I will not— _cannot_ put this aside. Your disobedience has undone all that I've worked for, and thrown into doubt all I'd hoped to achieve; you've driven me to . . . to lengths I'd hoped never to resort to."

"You'll let your feelings govern you?" Wasila said. "Even _Eilith_ found it in herself to let the grudge settle for the bigger picture. Come now; you know you're making the wrong decision for everyone involved—yourself included. Maven told me—"

"Be _silent!"_ Aradia's wand flashed out—the spell tore past Wasila when Pyrrha diverted it, blasting a hole in the parapet; Furnival cried out in alarm. "This matter is between Pyrrha and myself, but if you continue to interfere, I will _oblige_ you the very same. And you," she added grimly to Daisy. "I don't know how you've come to be involved, but you will accomplish nothing here but your own downfall, unless you stand aside. In this, the two of you are _extraneous."_

Daisy opened her mouth, expression defiant; Pyrrha forestalled her with a hand on the shoulder. "It's alright. Take Furnival and get him to the Lodge," Pyrrha said, including Wasila with a glance. To Daisy she added, "Don't waste worry on me. I'll be fine."

They would find passage through the protections with Wasila to facilitate; with the common hall stripped bare of sensitive materials, the traversal was safe as it could be for both parties until the Vow was annulled.

"Make your last parting sentiment without regrets," Aradia said, grim eyes flitting from the retreating Wasila and Furnival back to Daisy.

Daisy gave a rare scornful laugh, the disdainful mannerism at such odds with her tender nature as to be unpleasantly striking. She turned and led Hati toward the doors without a backward glance; the wolf turned back and resisted with a low whine, but Daisy kept a firm hold of his scruff. Her voice was level, confident, but worry bled through her thoughts.

"Don't be too long, Pyrrha."

Aradia's expression tautened, the merest betrayal of affront, and she watched over Pyrrha's shoulder until the doors boomed shut; her unsettling eyes alit on Pyrrha's again. Wind tousled hair and robes about their tensed frames and keened as it streamed between the minute cracks and indents against the stone face of the cathedral, along the rim of the curving parapet. The cold clung to Pyrrha like a second skin, creeping in beneath her billowing robes until she turned the wind away with a twitch.

Flecks of red glittered in the pale sunlight as Aradia made a deliberate gesture; behind Pyrrha were bone-grating sounds of stone rasping on stone, and a pair of somethings landed with crashes that reverberated throughout the terrace. Pyrrha didn't need to look; the gesture had been one meant for animation, directed at whatever stone statues had previously adorned the empty pedestals, lying in wait from the roof.

Aradia took aim at Pyrrha's heart. "Now show me—"

Displaced air gave a fleeting shriek as their positions were violently reversed at Pyrrha's charm, and she recovered first; under her flitting wand empty space seemed to fold around Aradia like mummy cloth until it unraveled at a counterspell. Towering gargoyles with twisted features thundered forward on all fours while Aradia cast white light that poured like a stain across the air, carrying whispers Pyrrha yearned to catch; she dispersed the light with a gesture and wrapped a glittering barrier over herself; curses and stone claws struck the charm with devastating noise, and the gargoyles upon her obscured all but their frozen, fanged snarls and unfurled wings like those of massive bats.

Their enchantments slipped transfiguration out of Pyrrha's grasp, and even as they ravaged the barrier it began to part at the site of a flickering black wound, where the creatures rabidly dug in their claws; with a deft gesture Pyrrha divested herself of the spell and enveloped the gargoyles instead, the tide of magic pressing them back with ear-splitting scrapes of stone claws against stone until the charm went up in black smoke and Aradia stepped around with another curse at the tip of her wand.

No light flashed; instead it was Aradia herself who shivered and stretched until she seemed to shed her own ghost; it closed in with vaguest form barely cohesive, bony arms diffuse and reaching blindly, flowing around the gargoyles bounding once more across the terrace with bone-juddering weight.

Pyrrha parted herself into sanguine mist and felt great fists assail and displace her painlessly, but then a calamitous feeling seized her being, all that made her what she was; Aradia's curse had caught hold, disregarded her intangibility, and it ran deathly cold fingers down her soul to clasp around her every reason to exist and pick them precisely apart. She couldn't scream or struggle, only endure as she was piecemeal prised from herself by an inexorable intent bent on unmaking, unraveling—

Heat welled up and burned away the chill, cast off the curse with a feeling like life's every sublime relief experienced at once; Pyrrha had a fleeting impression of piercing blue eyes.

She wasted no time in piecing herself together again in a confluence of prickling flesh that flared with agony at every inch, outward from the chest. Looming gargoyles brought down their arms again and were met with hellish wildfire crowned by the burning maw of a dragon; the curse coursed over the creatures in a turbulent surge of half-formed infernal claws, jaws and talons shaped from the wicked flames, and in moments nothing remained but the upper half of the dragon still soaring from Pyrrha's upraised wand and tormenting the air with each moment it writhed and consumed.

With an enormous exertion of will she called the curse howling back; the radiant beasts churning within clawed for purchase against all in reach with the myriad appendages of beings shapeless and countless, ravaging all they touched under transcendent incandescence until her wand absorbed the formless inferno, its deafening roar cut short. Pyrrha found she still couldn't breathe in the oppressive curse's absence and saw several knives buried in her chest, strangely bloodless; she had reformed around the blades. Through a smoky haze she could make out Aradia approaching over melted, bubbling stone scorched black.

"How very like you, to meddle with forces beyond your control! It seems you cannot learn."

Pyrrha blocked an emerald curse with a conjured iron shield as she struggled back to her feet, innards burning for breathless pain; with a follow-up flourish the embedded knives slid free and hurled themselves through the air trailing blood; Aradia turned the projectiles to fluttering doves that remained soaked in gore, and the blood drew together to form Pyrrha's own wand arm for a near point-blank curse—in the nick of time Aradia directed the birds to intercept the searing light and unmade the disembodied arm with an air-shattering spell.

Breath flowed freely through rewoven flesh. Pyrrha swept away the murmuring mouths drifting closer in the smoke and drew the haze together into a gigantic staring eye, its baleful glare fixed on Aradia, whose outline began to flicker until she disrupted the curse with an inarticulate exclamation; the smog lifted to unveil an eruption of molten stone spurting up like a geyser to rain down with steaming heat.

A sweeping gesture coalesced the deluge into a bubbling serpent that curved back for Aradia and stopped dead in the air, cooled to solid rock that shattered into jagged shards the next instant; the fragments formed serrated blades that swung for Pyrrha and were batted away with staggered swipes that sent them spinning over the parapets, save one; Pyrrha stepped back and held up her free arm against the final blade, and it cleaved away her limb at the elbow with a brutal swing and a spray of blood; pain surged up from the stump in time with her pumping heart as she reduced the pursuing blade to dust.

Aradia faltered, the shock in her eyes escaping her mental composure, and the lapse served Pyrrha well as she made a complex movement that drew yet more thrumming pain from her chest; her sundered arm burned with crimson light instantly matched by Aradia's corresponding limb, and the old witch's arm tore itself away, spurted dark red at her feet and over her robes as she drew the wound close and gave a hoarse shriek.

It was the work of moments for Pyrrha to reattach her arm, the divide mending with a maddening itch, and Aradia had failed to recover so well; she was ever more pale, cradling a newly-sealed stump of an arm to her chest—its other half twitched nearby in a steadily widening pool of red. Her wand arm trembled when she aimed it at Pyrrha; an answering gesture sent the severed arm up and around her throat, where it vanished at a startled jerk of her wand.

Wild-eyed, the old witch gracelessly parried several curses and gave a drawn-out, chilling scream of rage that dragged from her throat; she thrust her wand at the bright blue skies, and the world went dim. Every brilliant beam of light shining from the sun seemed to draw together out of the atmosphere, sapping the world of vibrance that reconvened in a rapidly magnifying pillar of pure blinding heat that poured itself down upon the ruined terrace until the intensity became overwhelming, and Pyrrha ensconced herself in a protective charm that did nothing to render the radiant scene discernible.

The unnatural dusk shimmered all throughout with the heat radiating from the pillar of pure sunlight dividing their battleground. Pyrrha wove steady spellwork against Aradia's, vying to let free the sunbeams back to their natural angles, but she was thwarted in every attempt while the effect broadened further. No sound could pierce the interminable hiss of stone burning and melting into cherry-red slag. The wall of light kept extending at both ends until the terrace was entirely divided between them, and Pyrrha realized what Aradia intended a moment before it happened.

She was weightless. The cathedral soared high as its terrace dropped from beneath her feet with a great resounding crumble until she stood on nothing at all and the wind from her fall tore at her robes and stole away her breath. The broken platform flew further and further into the pale blue sky, the rushing air howled all thoughts out of Pyrrha's head until her mind was nothing but terror, and fire split her skull; Ashlin forced a forbidden spell to the forefront, and Pyrrha seized upon it with unbridled panic.

Her lower half flickered and her fall hitched when she cast, as if she'd struck something, and her heart stopped in anticipation of a landing that didn't come; she knew she had only moments and she still couldn't apparate, still within the cathedral's bounds—her heart climbed ever higher and she cast again, and halted dead in the air.

Thick grey smoke roiled where her legs had been. Suspended over the earth by nothing more than the force of her will maintaining the spell, the plight of her tenuous flight flooded her with a fresh wave of distress. There was nowhere to look that would settle her fraying mind—it was all so far away, all so unnaturally bright, and there was no peace in closing her eyes and surrendering to the unknown. Pyrrha forced her gaze up and focused on the broken terrace with all the composure she could reclaim, and willed herself to rise.

"God . . ." The utterance escaped around the heart throbbing in her throat, a pathetic prayer, a plea to something she'd never believed and still didn't, but her safe conveyance back to steady ground felt endlessly far from her power. Her heart beat so heavily it felt like to burst free. The whistling wind cascading down her shoulders in her flight stoked as much fright as ever, as if she were merely falling toward death in a different direction. The adrenaline shivers wracking her frame threatened to loose the spell from her fragile grasp.

 _"There's more to be concerned for besides your own skin,"_ Ashlin said with a tone neither kind nor cruel. _"Remember why you can't fail."_

The presence of her sister and her soft and familiar voice bolstered Pyrrha's resolve. It might have been a threat, but no part of her could believe that. She clung to all the reasons her life mattered, the lives she could spend her own to save, and those thoughts swelled and held her dismay at bay; she kept her eyes focused on the enlarging cathedral to the exclusion of all else and ignored the perpetual deathly thrill of weightlessness until at last she crested the jagged edge of the devastated terrace and alit on solid stone.

The world tilted under Pyrrha while another cascade of shock descended through her bones; she stumbled forward and collapsed to her hands and knees in spite of all sense telling her to guard herself, and it was several ragged breaths before she could summon the will to look up from the stone.

At the opposite side of the terrace behind ebbing curtains of smoke Aradia leaned against the parapet, hunched with exhaustion, favoring her cursed arm. Her expression held the culmination of all different sorts of sorrows, and it was directed not at Pyrrha but out over the landscape, at the distant horizon, where a miniscule patch of grey clouds gathered in defiance of the pristine weather. Beneath the murky smudge, flittering specks of inky black shapes sharpened more distinct every moment.

The sight of Morrigan sapped from Pyrrha what little warmth remained, and numb dread crept in to permeate the hollows of her form. Even as she found her feet a sharp ripple swept over everything, a fleeting flutter in reality's fabric, and her mind flashed back to the breathless seconds in Ashlin's doorway.

They were caught. The vast open skies surrounding seemed to condense and draw in close to mirror the constricted feeling tightening in Pyrrha's throat.

"We are out of time." Aradia's voice was raw. "I'd taken measures to obscure this place, but it seems your . . . _connection_ runs deeply as you asserted."

The double doors behind them burst open before Pyrrha could reply, and the noise sent a spike of horror up her spine as she spun around, already dreading what she knew she would see; Daisy emerged with a whirl of golden hair as if from a waking nightmare with Hati at her heels, her frantic eyes darting from Pyrrha to the horizon and back.

It couldn't happen again.

"I told you—I _told_ you— _the Lodge!"_ The scar throbbed with strength of emotion that left her inarticulate.

Daisy winced at Pyrrha's voice, but rallied quickly, protest at the ready. "And what if you were in no condition to follow us? I couldn't just—!"

"Circe _curse_ you, Daisy, I—"

Low ringing like cold wind over the lips of a cave filled the air and the sky went utterly black, the atmosphere faded away to bare the world's face to deep space, and shadows lengthened and swayed like disfigured revelers rejoicing a new age of shade. Everything was in arm's reach and pressing closer with asymmetric eyes peeking from the patterns worn into every surface—

Daisy's horrific scream set all to a standstill, and Pyrrha met her terrified gaze just as the wail waned to a wet gurgle and died in her throat; her flesh dripped down like hot candle wax to pool around her crumpled robes in a gruesome puddle that bubbled pink below stark white bones, one pleading arm still extended toward Pyrrha marking her final conscious impulse.

Nothing that happened next could possibly matter. She was gone.

Pyrrha stared at her best friend's remains without the faintest regard for the urgent pain from her scar; the pain flared, and she welcomed it and faintly begged for more, for madness, that she might shed all she knew in favor of pure and encompassing agony. Ashlin's voice in her ear was reduced to a meaningless drone. Loss blanketed every thought, smothered them until all her initiative was winnowed away to leave her inert shell anchored to worthless existence.

Daisy's absence left behind emptiness that defied dimension.

Gone.

Vaguely, Pyrrha registered the wolf's long ghostly limbs padding a predatory circle around what had been Daisy. Hot breath trickled wisps of steam between his aberrant crocodile jaws. Hati craned his neck down to lap at the somatic pool, lamplike yellow eyes locked on Pyrrha. The calculated depravity in the wolf's stare jarred her, and she recoiled with a thrilling burst of clarity and collected herself, set her mind diametrically against the curse that gripped it.

Before Pyrrha could cast the countercurse the phantasm lifted, natural colors and shapes bleeding in seamlessly like the shifting of a great lens into proper focus. Something surged in her chest to see Daisy standing alive and unharmed, wan face streaked with glistening tracks of tears; Pyrrha took three steps forward without thinking before turning halfway back, matching eyes with Aradia, who lowered her wand with ponderous care.

Hurried footfalls preceded Daisy's arms flung around Pyrrha, though she avoided constricting Pyrrha's wand arm; she broke away in moments and readied her own wand. Seemingly undisturbed by the curse, Hati paced restlessly before them, black nose to the air, as if he could sense the calamity descending upon them like a shift in pressure before a storm.

"What more are we to expect?" Aradia's resigned eyes had returned to the blackening horizon; shining pinpricks of gold barely stood out in the fluttering cloud.

"We can't stand against her," Pyrrha said slowly, still reeling with mingled relief and numbness. The scar radiated pain down her face. "No one can. She's beyond immortality; any harm to her body undoes itself straightaway. Magical influences outside the material sphere slip from her as if she were truly dead."

"What of confinement? A trap?"

"Anything you might consider, I've dismissed it already, else I would make use of it now. Even given the time, nothing we could weave would contain her; she won't be drawn in. She's mindful of herself and that weakness, as it were. Regardless, anything we might devise in haste would pale in the face of Fionn's deliberate charmwork, and she hadn't the avail of her staff as she wore _that_ prison down. No," Pyrrha finished, leading the way to the cathedral doors, "until we learn more, flight is our only option. Come."

Only two sets of footsteps scurried at her heels. Pyrrha stopped before the open threshold and turned back to Aradia. The old witch's back was to them still, wand conducting a mute symphony over the hills and valleys far below the edge of the broken terrace; her robes and grey-streaked hair drifted and swayed in gentle opposition to the whims of the wind as her spellwork manifested itself. The white eye of the sun between cotton clouds washed away all chroma to create a pale, fiery palette tinged with grey far as eyes could see, as if the thinnest window veil separated Pyrrha from the world beyond.

A weight settled in Pyrrha's stomach when Aradia remained where she was. The old witch spoke over her shoulder before Pyrrha could entreat her.

"I will remain here to delay her as long as I am able—she cannot claim my life. Don't squander time scouring the building for a secret egress. Retrace your path and flee from the entrance; it is your most expedient course of action."

"Why?" Pyrrha said, her meaning clear as the question was faint.

"Do not presume to imagine any lingering fondness for you on my part," the old witch said lowly. "You are younger, yet, I confess, my equal at the least in magical prowess; you have what remains of my Cabal, and you share _something_ innate with the Nightmare Queen. You have a stake in the living." Her head turned a little, as if she could smell Daisy behind her at Pyrrha's left hand. "In short, you are the one who possesses what is necessary to end Morrigan. The only one. This much is clear to me, now . . . perhaps it already was."

"I don't understand. You live for your son, as I live for my family." Pyrrha's hand found Daisy's shoulder without looking, brief contact that subsumed her friend into the defining word. "And I haven't even begun to comprehend the nature of our connection, if it truly exists."

"I have little doubt," Aradia said. She lowered her wand but kept her gaze outward, at the imminent disaster winging ever nearer. "With all the impunity of a sovereign being such as her, she elects to stalk you across the earth with unerring focus and precision."

"She's driven by vengeance for her defeat at Fionn's hands," Pyrrha said. "She wants her enemy's bloodline bled dry. It doesn't mean I'm the only hope of ending her."

She wasn't sure why she was arguing; a misguided self-sacrifice was a more favorable outcome than prolonging their duel until there were no victors, only victims. Perhaps she could inspire another drastic change of heart, that Aradia might elect instead to escape with them.

"There is more than simple murder in Morrigan's head," Aradia said. She looked down at the bisected arm she still cradled to her chest. "Consider well her power, and that you have escaped its undivided attention in person more than once—and for all your aptitude, Pyrrha, that is several times too many. Have you never considered why the apparent solitary window of opportunity she had to seal your fate, marked by that scar, did not warrant a lethal blow?"

"What on earth are you driving at? You think she's _not_ striving to kill me?" As Pyrrha spoke, the notion claimed a terrible sort of logic that left her feeling as if the world had vanished from under her. The curse that had birthed Ashlin, the demented birds carrying her from Spire Island, the lethal attack directed solely at Wasila in the vapor chamber . . . Daisy clutched her arm painfully tight.

"That is my conclusion, yes. She wants you alive; this is an advantage the rest of us cannot claim. A slim advantage . . . but there it is. Exploit it." Aradia's head tilted back up to take in the encroaching plague, flittering under slow-billowing storm clouds like swathes of smoke from the sun-kindled horizon beneath, fiery white sparks flickering within. "Our allotted time for this exchange is dwindling. You must flee, before you render even this final endeavor of mine pointless."

Underneath turmoil stemming from the staggering implications Aradia had raised, new emptiness was finding a place in the patchwork void in Pyrrha's chest. "I'll unmake her," she promised over again; heat pressed against her skull from beneath. "All costs be damned, I'll see her dead. Somehow."

"You will," Aradia said. Left unspoken but unequivocal in her tone was that death would not deliver Pyrrha from the penalties of failure. Aradia flourished her wand in a neat series of loops that trailed transient ribbons of white light which dragged at the surrounding air before dying out, as if cleaving to existence with a futile will. Without the slightest disruption in the flow of spellwork, she turned her head back halfway to secure Pyrrha in a one-eyed stare that made ominous promises. "And afterward— _directly_ afterward—you will _bring me back."_

Pyrrha nodded gravely. "Thank you for this, Aradia, and . . . I'm sorry. Keep Vincenzo close in your thoughts; let him ground you." He would be her Ashlin, the anchor that withheld her severed soul from flying apart into senseless obscurity. The notion of what Aradia had resolved to endure sent a chill down Pyrrha's neck.

"Of course, child." Aradia turned away to the deteriorating vista, shoulders rising and falling with a weary sigh, settling low under the burdens of decades yet unresolved. Distant hoarse cawing clawed at the edge of perception. "Go now, with all possible speed."

Pyrrha ushered Daisy and Hati inside the cathedral and followed at their heels. She spelled the doors to swing shut with a flick of her wand; her last glimpse through the sealing gap was that of an apocalyptic wave of dark wings and murky clouds scattered with glowing yellow beads that never blinked away, a crest of corrupted gloom blotting out the distant skies as the crows soared for Aradia's zenith, where they would rain down upon the old witch waiting amid twisting white lights.

* * *

They didn't speak a word when the doors slammed shut; Pyrrha strode ahead past the ruined gallery's plinth and drew her wand down over her robes; her lower half billowed and curled into grey smog, and she glided at speed over the marble floor, debris kicking up in her wake. Daisy matched her pace at a sidelong sprint, her robes transfigured into close-fitting tailored attire. Hati bounded circles around them energetically, quicker than either of them, barking to spur them on as they flew along the connecting hallway back through the main exhibit.

In what felt like minutes rather than moments they had bolted past the gauntlet of glowering portraits and found the chamber of historical curios floating peacefully in the bleak light of bluebell fire. At an upward flourish the pedestals and their eclectic burdens floated up after the arc of Pyrrha's wand, out of the way; she spotted a weathered carpet in the drift and plucked it out of the air with a gesture as they tore across the room and barreled through the exit.

Pyrrha reverted to bipedal movement to better traverse the mazes of lamplit passageways and ornate furniture throughout the next suite of chambers. Daisy and Hati fell back to her as she began to lag behind, and they ignored her gestures urging them onward. She hadn't the breath to argue; her heart thumped heavily, each beat too lethargic to match the demand of her body's exertion. Dizziness lightened her burning head and betrayed her coordination, but Daisy righted her when she stumbled, fingers tight around Pyrrha's sweat-slick hand.

"Stop! Stop," Daisy said abruptly, pulling Pyrrha to a halt; she steadied her friend at the shoulder when Pyrrha lurched too far forward.

"What—what's the matter?" Pyrrha's deep gasps drowned out Daisy's faint panting. "Can't delay—!"

"We have to, you're about to pass out. Sit," Daisy said with a light push; Pyrrha collapsed back into a plush armchair, barely clinging to the carpet rolled under her arm. "And breathe. You're—"

Daisy broke off as she performed a rapid evaluation, wand whirling about as her attention darted from one detail to the next in rapid succession down Pyrrha's form; pupils, lips, carotid, chest, fingertips. A brief tremor shook the room.

"You're in hypovolemic shock—severe blood loss, but there's no bleeding, internal or external. Was it a curse? Pyrrha!" A sharp smack across the face chased away the dark webs creeping in at the edges of Pyrrha's vision. "A curse, or blood loss? Self-induced?"

"Blood . . ." Pyrrha exhaled the word. Her eyelids sank under supreme weight, and for a vaguely euphoric moment, everything was tranquil. Nothing hurt; nothing even felt.

A painful jolt yanked her back into consciousness. Light stung her eyes and bitterness coated her tongue; she coughed, and it was agony in her chest. Heat flushed her limbs and face as fresh blood pulsed through half-collapsed veins like molten iron filling a skeletal cast. Pyrrha felt at once ill and invigorated.

"Gave you a Blood Replenisher," Daisy said, voice delicate. "Had to r-restart your heart."

Pyrrha put her feet under her after a few seconds, her breathing steadily easing, deepening. It took everything she had in her to sound sincere; she'd never before experienced such perfect peace of mind, but Ashlin seared her censure for that thought across Pyrrha's head.

"Thank you, Daisy." Pyrrha absently patted Hati's muzzle as the wolf whined, wet nose nuzzling her hand. "We need to . . . carry on."

It became clear within the first few steps that Pyrrha hadn't regained much vigor at all. The floor tilted under her boots like the heaving deck of a ship, and each stride taxed her far more than it should; it was as if she were succumbing to slow poison, but the dose had been a touch too diluted. When Daisy slipped her shoulders under Pyrrha's free arm, their pace quickened by a fraction.

Stumbling and halting, they emerged into the grandiose entrance hall. The chamber was subdued; nearly all the light that had once filtered through the high windows was choked back behind a suffocating layer of thunderheads that seemed draped over the cathedral's stained glass ceiling like sodden wool. The empty echoes of their footsteps carried all the way to the distant shrouded corners, between scrolled pillars and expressionless, looming stone figures.

Bone-chilling noise rent the air, a deafening death rattle exhaled from the direction they'd come, sickening in pitch and far too drawn-out to belong to what lived. A needling thrill raced beneath Pyrrha's skin. The building shuddered around them as if in revulsion for what took place inside its recesses, but not even so much as a fluttering tapestry evinced the upheaval. Pyrrha let her wand fall as the perpetual breath at last went thin and perished, a palpable sense of wickedness pervading the chamber in its eerily ringing wake.

The binding promise dissolving behind Pyrrha's heart alleviated a constricted sensation she had long since failed to notice.

"What's she doing now?" Daisy whispered urgently, eyes chasing at the room's shadows.

"It was Aradia . . . her final breath," Pyrrha said, stooping down stiffly to unroll the carpet across the stone. Belated affection for the old witch stole over her and faded away like a childhood memory. "She's done what she could for us; let's make the most of it. Hurry, now."

The carpet rose from the floor of its own volition, pausing at knee height. As Daisy and Hati moved to settle on its unwavering surface, Pyrrha looked up at the dynamic mosaics across the ceiling once more.

The fractured likenesses of legends past played out their lives' defining moments amid a living stage veined in winding wire frames of iron, colors muted against the shroud of cloud cover smothering the skies beyond. From the crown of a hill, a dull pile of unrefined emeralds like verdant coals, Morrigan's pale simulacrum stared down, indecipherable in her bearing, though starkly still among the chaos of motion surrounding her. The citrine shards of her irises alone glinted with the scintillating light that ought to have faded along with the sun.

The hair on Pyrrha's neck prickled. She mounted the flying carpet and settled comfortably as she was able upon one end of the airborne conveyance, opposite Daisy's mien of distress, the wolf between them alert and unblinking; he favored Daisy with a patient glance when she ran trembling fingers through his fur. A gesture saw them lifted from the stonework without momentum in the manner of a perfectly stabilized elevator; another motion, and they soared silently for the grand double doors.

Hati's claws clenched the thin fabric underneath them as he peered cautiously over the carpet's hem. Pyrrha barely registered their height; all she could consider was that tingle at the nape of her neck, a nightmarish sensation, as if a reaching something were inches from seizing her throat. Every sense had heightened to an acute, primal awareness, alert for the most minute detail that may precede Morrigan's arrival.

Over the pounding of her pulse, a new sound was burgeoning from the gravid quiet. Pyrrha didn't pause to categorize it. They drifted to a halt before the arched wood doors and she set upon them at once, flitting and twirling her wand, reeling off charms to unravel the cathedral's protections. The sound intensified while she endeavored until its ghastly nature became clear; a discordant chorus of screaming, wailing, unbridled lamenting, tearing as if from the throats of the restless dead.

"Guard your mind!" Pyrrha said over the cacophony. While she assayed for their freedom, Daisy's countenance cycled through a rapid series of expressions, and Pyrrha's alarm heightened further. Prepared and acquainted with the keening curse, she was able to stave it off; with neither advantage, Daisy soon uttered a cry of her own, clutching desperately at her head.

"Make it stop, make them stop— _please stop!"_ Daisy's eyes bulged behind her clenching fingers, nails biting into the skin of her face. Her voice ascended to a wild shriek. _"What did I—I never meant for that, never—please—forgive it, forgive me—!"_

There were too many precautions about the doors, there was too little time—Pyrrha dispelled the principal obstacle and sent them flying back with a flourish toward the middle of the chamber—

 _"—my fault, I know it, I didn't want—"_

Pyrrha could shut out the influence but not the noise; it climbed to an excruciating range of pitches prying at her sanity—she had to get out, get them all out—they flew until the mosaics again glimmered above over faint torchlight. The glass Morrigan's eyes burned, and her angular mouth stretched unnaturally wide to echo the wailing, her fractured world trembling and rattling with terrible power—

All moved with measured, fluid grace in a nightmare manifest, as though the reality weren't Pyrrha's at all, only a vivid recollection pared down and succinct; Daisy's babbling cut off as her voice broke, and she scrabbled for the carpet's edge and heaved herself over it headfirst; horror suspended Pyrrha's reaction for precious seconds until she brandished her wand and caught Daisy a bare few meters from the stone. A flourish brought her back, thrashing and howling, and she was set down again in unyielding, invisible binds.

The mad ululations reverberated through each shard of shattered glass when Pyrrha obliterated Morrigan's pane with a burst of light. An upward flick had them ascending beneath a shower of sharp edges, up toward the rumbling grey cloak of clouds blotting the sky; wintry air stung at her lungs and fiery pain _surged_ from her arm—

Hati's eyes shined, brilliant and golden, nearly blinding as he savaged Pyrrha's arm between his snarling jaws; her own blood spattered in her eyes when he thrashed, a wrenching crackle of bones wrung to fragments in her wrist, nearly unseating her—she lashed out with a repulsing charm and an agonized outburst escaped her when the wolf clutched tighter, the spell barely buffeting him back.

The beast growled and ravaged and whipped his bloodstained silver mane about in spasms of violence—underneath the visceral throes radiating, panic rose like bile when Pyrrha felt Hati's fangs meet within the flesh of her arm, grating at her bones. She aimed her wand again and reached out to the blood spilling down the wolf's gulping throat, staining it stark red; black steam billowed between his teeth as the blood hissed and burned, and Hati howled and jerked back, jaws still clamped—Pyrrha's hand tore free with a wet ripping sound, secured in the wolf's gory maw as he slipped from the carpet and vanished over the side.

A shattered pane punctuated the uproar of the burgeoning storm and the ceaseless calls of dry-throated crows. Pyrrha's arm felt as if something were drawing out the tendons and ligaments, steadily hauling out the veins like a sailor at his grisly rigging, unwinding her arteries from inside. All that spurted forth was blood, a veritable fountain; she jammed the sundered limb in her lap and set the carpet soaring with a precise gesture. Daisy struggled in front of her, insensible, while they gathered speed against raging wind.

They cleared the cathedral's vast, sloping roofs, and were enveloped in a vile whirlwind of dark wings and bright eyes. Foul air flowed from the madly fluttering mass, hoarse cries strained their desiccated lungs; talons and beaks plucked, slashed, clutched at their robes while brittle wings buffeted. A whirl of the wand emitted a burst of golden light that clung to the air after an instant's travel; their carpet ferried them through the static flare and the swarm alike, the deadlocked crows reduced to transparent imprints insubstantial as ghosts.

Shallow furrows marred Daisy's body, and Pyrrha was relieved at their limited extent. Her own lap was suffused with lifeblood warmth that sapped her focus, muddled her mind; gale and thunder drowned out her most coherent chains of thought and left her with instinct. An intricate motion came with the ease of familiarity, directed at the gushing stump of her arm. Blood drew from her with a tugging in the chest. It flowed down her arm to the site of steady throbbing pangs and stalled, purposeless, as if her body had forgotten the hand it had lost. The pain sharpened.

A sliver of dismay descended Pyrrha's spine. She altered the spell with a motion, and her ruined wrist tingled, tickled as blood trickled from the wound and meshed together into flesh. What was left to her was only a useless stump.

A timely look back allowed Pyrrha to glimpse the swarm regain form like so many flecks of ink cast upon pale gold canvas. The light faded and the birds took wing again; a cluster twisted together in their heaving center to shape Morrigan, hollow pits shining like distant tunnels to death, flesh withered and mottled with all shades of rot. She brandished her staff in one shrunken hand.

The atmosphere prickled; lightning flashed down, caught the tip of Pyrrha's darting wand and angled toward Morrigan, who reacted with a swift, graceful spin as the arc met her upraised staff and followed its path, lashing out in a wildly brilliant pinwheel of searing whips that shredded the flock to ribbons. At a following flourish, simmering feather shafts and smoking shards of beak and bone honed in on Pyrrha, slicing through the storm as if it had no bearing on the air.

With a quick flick ahead of them Pyrrha parted the wind, enfolding their craft into a frictionless slipstream which seemed to accelerate their flight by double. The instant of inattention nearly cost her; a cloud plunged and poured down her nose, throat, eyes and ears in a deluge of smothering vapor. After a moment of panic, chest cavity swelling unbearably, she gathered herself and cast in a complex movement that averted the channel and saw the moisture drawn out from her pores, emitting a mist like aeriform sweat with a dizzying sensation of abating pressure.

The bodily fog left behind became crystallized ice and expanded at Pyrrha's direction to freeze the crows' projectile remains dead in the air. The parted winds passed with undue softness as the carpet flew ever further away from the suspended ice; Pyrrha spared a second to seal Daisy's cuts with a flick. Morrigan appeared through the frozen barrier as if it weren't there, but her form was more distant than before, and the witch sensed it.

Hellish human howling carved at the air once again. Pyrrha felt surging hatred and suffering at depths she'd never thought to delve; every instant experiencing it was a torturous lifetime torn apart from reason—

 _—DIED, WRUNG DRY—_

—she struggled under wrathful blue eyes—

 _—NEVER RISE NEVER RISE NEVER RISE—_

—she rallied, ousting the curse with enormous effort. The obvolute screams still twined and screeched against themselves in expressions of hurt that elicited stunted pain to hear, stinging shades of sorrows felt by another to their most terrible extremes, compounded countless times with dreadful clarity as if across a vacuum. Pyrrha spurred the carpet on to its limits as though all the unsettled afterlife pursued alongside the Nightmare Queen.

The fabric shivered beneath them. It twisted violently at the same time a tingle passed over the air—the edge of Morrigan's charmed cage—and it dumped them into empty space; they plummeted toward hills cast in grey, and the screams seemed to surpass their straining pinnacles; Pyrrha clasped her wand tight and snatched wildly for Daisy. She brushed fluttering cloth, caught it, and apparated, falling instead into a mute and claustrophobic void.

* * *

The featureless traversal seemed to crawl to an end, as if the empty realm itself were reluctant to regurgitate them. The wave-beaten coast that hosted the Giants' Causeway greeted them with a saline breeze; it had been her quickest thought. Distant cries of gulls set Pyrrha's nerves flaring anew. She opened her eyes.

Pyrrha was alone. The hand she'd clutched Daisy's robes with hadn't been there.

Daisy was gone, and utter denial consumed Pyrrha's mind; the voice that said Daisy was dead, that another careless mistake had cost another precious life, was ruthlessly stamped out. Drowning in alarm, gasping, she released the Body-Bind and made to apparate back.

The spell resisted her. Morrigan had entrapped the area anew, moments too late to snare her intended quarry.

She had Daisy instead.

Every trace of focus left to Pyrrha was directed at obliterating the obstacle; she charmed, cursed, raged and dashed herself against the spell until her body trembled with strain, with thrumming displacement pain, and then she kept contending. Like an insect pressing impotently upon window glass Pyrrha exerted herself against the impossible force until her head throbbed and her knees buckled.

From her voice, low and broken, came an insane noise which defied classification. Her five remaining fingers were numb around the wand. The craggy surrounding earth was disappearing, as if neatly pared from existence layer by layer, baring the smooth soil beneath. Blood pounded in her ears in relentless tides of inward pressure.

There was her answer. It was desperate, doomed to death, but that mattered no more. Pyrrha turned her consciousness inward and groped blindly along those infinite spans of intangible channels for distant kindred. It wasn't at all like seeking Ashlin, her sister's blood like a flare in the dark; relief and profound horror battled for primacy when at length Pyrrha found what she'd hoped and dreaded for, a far-off sickness existing in the same vein as her own vitality. Morrigan indeed shared Clay blood, twisted, tainted.

The witch reacted to Pyrrha's touch; the sanguine scraps of imitated life seemed to shudder, though with hatred or revulsion it couldn't be told. Pyrrha initiated the spell without another thought. It was an intricate work, and she performed flawlessly the gestures and invocations required to transport her flesh by their visceral connection; she would unravel and rebirth herself directly from Morrigan's own putrid body. What effect such a mingling may have she no longer cared.

A sudden warm and silvery glow suffused her closed eyelids, quite apart from the cloud-filtered sunshine reflecting from the waves. Forestalled, Pyrrha opened her eyes to witness a ghostly wolverine floating above the unnaturally uniform circular pit surrounding her.

 _"Safe. Apparated,"_ came Daisy's voice, and with it, a profound relief. _"Meet at Dad's place."_ The ethereal messenger curled up and faded in a puff of mist.

"Safe," Pyrrha breathed. She felt she may float from the ground at the weight uplifted.

Ashlin was quick to spoil the reprieve from despair. _"Could be a ruse, a trap. Don't you think it best to let her be? This chance is perfect."_

 _Not a trap. Not this quickly._ Pyrrha was past exhaustion, heady elation further stunting her articulated thoughts. _Morrigan is in Ireland, Daisy's father lives in London's Diagon Alley._

 _"Even so . . ."_

 _We're going._

* * *

The scatter of afternoon traffic outside Mr. Pitcher's apothecary was as startling to Pyrrha as her sudden ragged appearance in their midst was to them. In the space of a moment she'd interpolated herself into the alien normalcy of society, a disastrous interloper among the deceptively fragile accord of humanity; Pyrrha at once felt stranded at the wrong end of an impossibly wide gulf. She disregarded exclamations of surprise and concern and swept through the stymied tide of wide-eyed faces to shove past the shop's propped door.

The eminently familiar herbal scents permeating the building brought back fond impressions of those few free summers spent often as not in Daisy's company. Pyrrha's energetic entrance had garnered glances that lingered at the sight of her scar, and she distantly lamented its immutable permanence, satisfying herself with a maintained glare at a wizard she meant to pass; the man all but stumbled out of her way. Along the glimmering aquatic aisle and through a doorway tucked into a corner she strode, up a brief flight of wooden steps and down a hall humming with her own charmwork, where she stalled at a door with a canary-yellow stain.

The door flew open and Daisy stood in its frame, alive and unhurt; she leapt their distance and buried Pyrrha in a trembling hug.

They made their way inside with empty comforts spoken in undertones, Daisy leading Pyrrha by the hand. Hurriedly, she concealed the stump of her other arm in the depths of her sleeve. An old apprehension reared its head with newfound life at the sight of Daisy's father waiting in the cozy sitting room. A rotund man, his rosy cheeks were wreathed by a vibrant beard with more silver than she recalled, his eyes ever alight with the same relentless kindness as his daughter.

"Come in, come in, dear girl, none of your skulking about at the outskirts here! I'm given to understand you're in no small amount of trouble," he said, eyes predictably finding her scar. He gave a sympathetic wince, and she looked away. "Merlin's burning beard, but it's plain in your face the papers haven't hinted at the half of it!"

Pyrrha tore her eyes from the worn ottoman settled in the corner. "The papers?"

Mr. Pitcher gave a small, pensive nod and beckoned them into the kitchen, where he began preparing tea by hand. "You're sought after, I'm sorry to say—the both of you—in connection to the cursed wildfire in Ireland, and an attack on the staff at Hogwarts. I've been 'interviewed' no less than four times, myself."

His tone wasn't accusatory, but Pyrrha felt welling shame all the same. "I can't begin to tell—"

"Well then, don't!" Mr. Pitcher said. He turned his broad back on them to attend to the kettle. "I know a bit of how you think, my girl, the little knots you twist yourself into, and any other time I'd be more than glad to sit you down and assuage your troubles however I could. But we both know, don't we, that there just isn't time for any such diversion."

"No?" Pyrrha glanced at Daisy to convey some disquiet.

Mr. Pitcher gave a deep, strained chuckle. "Don't fret, Pyrrha; she hasn't told me anything she shouldn't, or I can guess I might have lost my head by now! Sick with worry, that's me, of course, but—but I trust you two, my daughter and my might-as-well-be, you know."

The scar trickled fire down into her chest.

Mr. Pitcher's voice lost all pretense of a cheerful evening visit, taking on a burden of grief and exhaustion. "I . . . well, Pyrrha, I couldn't be more sorry about little Ashlin. Such a mischievous ray of sunshine I should never forget."

There were gnawing pains upon pains laying claim to Pyrrha, and she felt she may choke if she tried to speak. Daisy came to her aid after a poignant silence.

"Why haven't we got time, Dad?" she asked softly.

The man heaved a great sigh while he reclaimed the whistling kettle from a burner. "It's like I told you, of course. Eyes are searching, and they're armed with pictures, descriptions—including that scar. Having had that mark marched through my shop a short while ago, I can't imagine interested parties aren't far behind, understand?"

Digesting this newest ill omen, Pyrrha received the proffered cup of tea automatically, and a splash and shatter preceded broken china littering the sodden floor. The cup had slipped at the false expectation of another hand.

The tense quiet stretched. Pyrrha could feel keenly Mr. Pitcher's eyes on her riven arm as she tucked it back into her robes, unable to raise her eyes from the mess. The pieces flew back together at a halfhearted flick of the wrist.

". . . Can't it be healed, then?" Mr. Pitcher nearly whispered.

"I don't know." It was brought home to Pyrrha then what the uncertainty meant; that she must unlearn every thoughtless habit, every muscle memory established in twenty-nine years of life, to compensate for a permanent crippling lack.

In light of everything taken from her, the loss hardly mattered at all. It was only another trial she would prove equal to. To her faint surprise, it was instead Hati and his patient silver eyes she mourned; the steadfast wolf was yet one more who had deserved far better in a protector than her.

Two high chirrups sounded from the cuckoo clock in the sitting room; the three of them perked up.

"That'll be our, ah, uninvited guests," Mr. Pitcher said, failing to smother reluctance and worry when he added, "now go on, girls, and get yourselves to the fire. Won't do for me to be caught harboring fugitives, no matter the right of things. I'll be here whenever, whatever you need, until it's all straightened out."

"Thanks, Dad." Daisy embraced her father, who met Pyrrha's eyes over his daughter's shoulder with an expression indecipherable as his emotions beneath, so numerous and nuanced they were.

"You'll . . . you'll take care when you can, won't you both?" Mr. Pitcher asked, almost as much of himself as they, it seemed to Pyrrha.

"Of course we will," Daisy said.

"I'll have Daisy back to you safe and whole," Pyrrha said. The scar bled heat in covenant.

They took their leave in a flare of emerald flames, and Mr. Pitcher watched the empty fireplace until a polite and firm knock echoed from his door, eliciting a final sad breath before he turned away.

"That wasn't what I asked."


	13. Chapter 13

A low murmur of conversation dropped off as Pyrrha and Daisy emerged from the fire in a burst of green light and ash. Lit well by the gold-tinted fungi, the common hall for a moment appeared as a portal into the past with the impressions of life and activity afforded by its occupants, but Pyrrha's mind soon caught up to her despondent reality; amidst stations of study stripped bare and dusty shelves picked clean, there were but three other silent souls inhabiting the space. They all watched Pyrrha.

Byron stood beside the fire, unruly brown hair matted to his forehead with old sweat. Wasila waved from behind him, seated with refined ease beside Furnival at the round meeting table, and her enduring smile quirked into a smirk at the disheveled potioneer's anxious half-step forward.

He spared Daisy a curious glance before meekly meeting Pyrrha's stare. "Pyrrha . . . listen, it's—er, I mean, first of all, I'm glad to see you're—"

"Does anything of what you're attempting to say pertain to Morrigan?" Pyrrha said.

Byron winced at her tone. "Er, no."

"Then it can wait. Go and attend to the vapor chamber; from here on, the Lodge never stills while I'm inside it. Understand?" Pyrrha waited until Byron and Wasila both nodded before adding, "You'll share the duty with Eilith, as well. It's the least she can do."

"Sure. I'll pass that along, I suppose," Byron said, a little dubious. He seemed to summon himself up, pushing his crooked glasses back into place. "I'm sorry, but I really must tell you—well, I _am_ sorry for all that . . . that _mess_ back there, but Aradia, you know, she was . . ."

"A difficult woman to disregard," Pyrrha finished, and Byron nodded with some relief that he had been understood. Displeasure indurated her tone to ring through the room. "As am I, yet here you stand easily enough, misusing my time to satisfy your own peace of mind. Begone! _Go,_ before my patience fails me—we may both regret what happens then!"

The weedy wizard tried his best not to appear hurried as he fled, nearly tripping over the hem of his robes on his way out the eastern door.

Wasila gave a shake of her head with a rueful grin, twirling her wand between her fingers. "The poor man can't find a break, can he? I wonder who it is he was hoping to see."

"Weren't you a bit harsh?" Daisy said.

"I think little of anyone that allow themselves to be cowed into acting toward ends they believe to be wrong," Pyrrha said, running her fingers through her hair; her left arm twitched up and lowered again. "He would have been a killer by coercion."

Fury and eagerness were all that ran her enervated body, and it had perhaps amplified her disgust, but Byron's feelings were immaterial. Only one consideration could possibly earn her delicacy. The object of their deadly excursion sat there before her, bewildered and yet somewhat more at ease than she might have expected, though he had paled at the glimpse of her arm. She approached the table with her best effort at an expression of calm reassurance.

When she laid her hand on the high back of the chair opposite, Wasila barely shook her head and flicked her eyes at the empty seat at Furnival's other side; after a ponderous moment Pyrrha rounded the table and claimed the indicated chair, and with a few gestures pulled it out and sat it facing the historian directly. Past him, Wasila briefly pressed a hand to her forehead.

"Mr. Furnival," Pyrrha said as she took her seat. Daisy hopped up and settled on the table's edge behind her. "Let me begin with an apology for the . . . for our intrusion. I'd hoped for a less stressful reunion for us both, though you appear to be keeping well?"

Furnival uttered a laugh, somewhat higher than his usual voice, though he spoke steadily. "I'm well enough, aren't I? Well as I can be after playin' host to a fuckin' civil war skirmish in me own home—ah, pardon the language, good ladies, but I'm all in a tizzy! Miss Harcourt's stimulating company only does so much for a man's nerves in this sort'a bloody fever dream. And you!" The old man gestured at Pyrrha up and down. "What in God's good name happened to John Clay's little girl, eh? Explain me that!"

"More than I'd like, and nothing I care to revisit in detail."

Furnival's brow furrowed, and Wasila gave a little grimace from behind him. "A shame, that, but I can understand—I'd heard a bit'a the business from yer da, ya know, and I still can't wrap my head around it—to kidnap a bleedin' child like—!"

"I'll thank you not to continue that thought," Pyrrha said sharply, and Furnival quailed a little. Drang was distant history she'd rather not have exhumed, particularly in Wasila's company, considering the woman's unsettling attention to her past.

"A'course, a'course, and grant yer forgiveness." Furnival sat back and rubbed at his grey temples. "It's all a bit much for me, isn't it—the Nightmare Queen!" he cried. "God help us all if it truly ain't a heap'a nonsense!"

"She's out there, sir. She set upon us at your home soon after you left, and this—" Pyrrha shook back her sleeve and held up the stump of her left arm, the sealed flesh still an angry scarlet "—is what she did to me."

Furnival cringed. "Good lord, how—?"

"This was my second escape, days ago," Pyrrha said, placing a finger at the sensationless site of her scar. "After she murdered my sister in front of me."

Ashlin was suddenly there as if summoned, sat across the table from Pyrrha at Wasila's far side. She offered a smile, sad and genuine, and the burn mirrored the uprising warmth in Pyrrha's heart at the sight.

Furnival's response reclaimed her attention. "That's . . . well, that's fuckin' brutal, ain't it?" he said, voice gone a little thick. "John couldn't help but mention the two'a ya when we had business, no matter the occasion—even in writin', he'd tell me this an' that about somesuch silly joke or gesture—kind'a things only the parents can really appreciate, I s'pose. I feel as if I might'a knew her a little for that, if that makes any sort of sense, so I'm . . . I hate to hear it. I really do."

"Thank you for that," Pyrrha said quietly. "Perhaps you've had some light shed on your purpose here?"

Furnival blinked owlishly, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was about to say. "It's how the raving mad one put it, then? You need me to tell ya how to kill the Nightmare Queen."

Wasila laughed. "Well, that's a fine windfall! To think we nearly wasted precious time at divining her past, cobbling together an answer! Don't hold back, wise man," she said, "where do we stick her?"

To Pyrrha's surprise the old man snorted, amused. "Ah, feck off, and you know well what I meant! A'course I dunno about all that curse business—but what I _do_ know, see, is everythin' else, near enough. But I don't see for what call," he added to Pyrrha curiously, "when it's all been told before. Ain't you got yer da's notes? He took plenty enough in all our jawin'."

Pyrrha shook her head. "They were all destroyed when our home burned to the ground. I hadn't yet been through the lot of them."

The atmosphere perceptibly sobered to its earlier state in the silence that followed. It rang unpleasantly of any number of other social engagements where Pyrrha's deportment had been found wanting, though she hadn't a clue how one might soften such news.

Daisy spoke up as if nothing had gone amiss. "So instead, we get to hear it all straight from you. Could be for the best, even; your own account is bound to be more thorough."

"Aye, there's that, to be sure," Furnival agreed. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. "So let's crack on! Where shall I begin, eh? What is it you know already of the Queen's tragic past?"

Little was there for Pyrrha to relate, as her focus had been consumed by the search for the island prison, taking for granted all the time that the knowledge and skill available to her would be sufficient in breaking the witch's curse. She recited the obscure tidbits she had run across that came prior to the storybook confrontation, and then summarized the tale itself, and by the end of her oration Furnival was shaking his head as if to condemn uncouth behavior.

"Just enough truth to it for the purpose of _entertainment,_ I reckon," he said, as if history were ill-used for such a function, "but otherwise worthless gibberish, that fairy tale is. I'll have to begin at the beginning, then, to set you to rights, an' hopefully you can make of it what you need to."

"That's all I can ask. Thank you," Pyrrha said.

The anticipation that had been building in her now mingled with an odd melancholy; there was the shadow of resemblance to better evenings spent listening to tales spun by her father, and it was a woefully hollow echo. She thought she may never truly recapture that distant feeling of insulated happiness.

Furnival rolled his eyes up to the glowing ceiling in thought, absently righting his monocle. "Morrigan's earliest years are the least well documented, an' I can't say as it's all that relevant to what came later. Suffice it to say her mother, Nemain, made a proper ordeal out of childhood for her and her sisters, for what greater temptation is there than to exploit those who depend on you, when they harness such power? Accounts of how that arrangement ended differ, though not by much, all told; there was undoubtedly a nasty sort of death involved.

"The sisters three branched out at their newfound freedom, though they remained close, a'course, close as siblings could be who'd been through all they had together under Nemain. They began to practice magic as never they had before, and for all the hell their mother had given them, she'd chanced at one kindness; she'd kept her daughters circumspect. Left to their own devices, notoriety was theirs across the land soon enough, and sooner still were all manner of folk venturing from near and far to beg boons of the sisters—long, long before we magicals were numbered enough to be hunted and driven to secrecy, see. The witches being of rather a rough and insular upbringing, I was astonished to find they had entertained the peasants for a time, perhaps finding worth in the adulation of the masses—but only for a time.

"Yes, time came and went, yet the entreaties of the muggles never waned in volume; much the opposite, as one might expect. Ceaseless pleas became requests became entitled demands, and then that was that, the end of the peoples' good fortune. The sisters turned away all comers, from beleaguered warlords to sick-stricken fishwives with five mouths to feed. Resentment was quick to follow, and retribution right on its heels—a terrible crime it was, indeed, not to consent to spend their lives in constant pursuit of the betterment of strangers, in the manner of the Blighted Bride. In this, the sisters had joined the ranks of Dagda and Cuhulin as heretics in the minds of the populace, self-consumed outsiders to the goodness of humanity, content to champion suffering by their inaction."

"Rubbish!" Daisy reddened a little when the outburst drew their eyes. "Sorry, it's just so unfair! Nobody should have to bear all that responsibility."

"Where do you come from that 'fair' is a consideration?" Wasila said. "I should like to visit."

"There's justice to the world," Daisy said. "Only . . . there isn't enough of it, sometimes." She shifted nearer to Pyrrha upon the tabletop.

There was a soft rustle of movement, and Pyrrha's hair uncoiled and tumbled down her shoulders, where it met the gentle pull of a hairbrush. The unexpected attention sent a tingle of warmth over her scalp.

Wasila looked unimpressed. "How terribly unlucky for those at the end of the line when the well runs dry."

"Justice," Ashlin said, leaning forward knowingly, "is something we've all got to bring about for ourselves—it won't just _happen,_ serendipitous."

"I'm inclined to agree," Pyrrha said, falling silent at the same moment as Daisy, whom she'd spoken over. A thrill of alarm ascended her spine.

"Sorry—agree with what?" Daisy said, pausing mid-stroke.

"I was thinking aloud," Pyrrha said, striving not to sound breathless as cruel heat seeped in. She gestured at Furnival. "Continue."

The old man nodded amiably. "Right, an' where was I, now? Aha! Retribution." He half-stood and turned his chair to face Pyrrha more completely, plopping gratefully back down. "So, as I said, ent nobody who were happy with the sisters' change of heart. The muggles raised a racket backed by steel, more than once, if you'll believe it—by all accounts, it took no less than three separate 'battles' for the masses to take the lesson, an' they'd done quite some damage to Morrigan's forest refuge in the meanwhile. She didn't take kindly to that, an' it was that point she an' her sisters shed all compunctions. Anyone from then on who neared their lands were recipient to an indiscriminate and deadly attention, to every sadistic length in their power.

"At some point during this period, the witches had made the acquaintance of Dagda, a recluse in his own right, so I myself would be eager to learn how that came about, but alas, I've had no luck in that direction. Dagda faced similar persecution, being a cantankerous old wizard hoarding wondrous magics of his own—a case of the outcasts banding together against oppression, I could suppose, but I digress. They'd become so close, in fact, the old man had consented for Morrigan, an' _only_ Morrigan, to sip from his enchanted cauldron, from which it was said no one walked away unsatisfied. It's my speculation that her great desire then was to deepen her connection to the untamed timberlands she claimed as home, as it explains rather neatly her reputed affinity for wildlife.

"It was Dagda who ferried a message from the wizard-hero Fionn McCoul himself, perhaps with a bit of coaxing on the old man's part. It was an offer of amnesty for their heretofore unchecked brutality, with the provision that the sisters would lend themselves to aid in quelling the uprising of the giants, who had united under a vicious specimen called Bennadon. I could prattle on for hours about that fella, the remarkable feats'a conquest—but, yes, another time, perhaps. Ahem.

"Eventually the siblings agreed to his terms, and they held to their word, helped McCoul wage war against the giant tribes who had terrorized and overrun settlements across Ireland. It was a campaign of years, despite the combined might at their disposal, an' by the time of its end—a decisive loss for the giants—Fionn had realized some kindled affection toward the Nightmare Queen."

Cold exhilaration suffused Pyrrha's lungs. "Were they—did they have a relationship?"

"Most definitely not," Furnival said. "It was this very thing which sparked their enduring feud; McCoul declared his feelings in unflinching readiness to be reciprocated, and, by what few accounts I've managed to scrounge, Morrigan spurned him in the most public and humiliating manner she could contrive. In his outrage, Fionn reneged on their agreement, and the massacre that followed at the edge of the wilds is more or less accounted for in that tale of yours."

"Macha and Badb did betray their sister, then?"

"That they did. Not out of jealousy or spite, mind you—they sought after their own safety, and knew Fionn was their only hope. Yes," Furnival said at Pyrrha's expression, "by their assertions, Morrigan's disposition had gradually twisted into tyrannical cruelty that recalled their mother, only with an unmatched command of magic to give teeth to the situation."

"Why?" Pyrrha said. It seemed a bizarre turn from what had supposedly been a tight-knit sororal bond.

"No one can say for certain," Furnival said. "Could be it was just who she was finally free to become. My guess? It would have something to do with that mysterious well of power Morrigan alone had been granted a taste of. The timeline seems to fit together, if ya squint."

"Perhaps," Pyrrha said. "Have there been others to take this sort of fall, after drinking of the cauldron?"

Furnival shrugged. "It was legend, an honor reserved for those who'd earned Dagda's respect. I've got no concrete proof of any other recipient, so all I'd venture to say is that the big man himself seemed to maintain a certain level of waspishness throughout his recorded lifetime. No sudden descent into madness."

"Did Dagda deign to bestow this 'honor' to Fionn?"

"No. They had tensions of their own. Dagda had family on both sides of the war, if you catch my meaning. McCoul held that against him."

"I see." What little pride in her lineage Pyrrha might have held to was sinking away. "Go on."

"An' on I go. Now, Fionn, having avenged his wounded ego at the cost of hundreds or thousands of lives, including that of his own wife, well—it was a mess, a blight on his good name, and it was all his own doing. In his rage he took Morrigan prisoner rather than ending the affair right there, colluding with his old nemeses the giants, to boot. Now, for my money, it was the shock of killing her own sisters that did it."

"Did what?"

Furnival blinked. "Allowed Fionn to capture and imprison her with such impunity, a'course! Haven't I gone on about her powers, not to mention the staff."

"The staff?"

"Another gift from Dagda, I tend to suspect, as Macha and Badb hadn't their own, while Dagda's instrument was famed in its own right. There are some lines of thought that lean toward special influence of the masses having been granted or enhanced by the staff, but it's nothing I can verify, even though it's her namesake."

"You can," Pyrrha said. "We've had occasion to examine it, and discovered it to have a profound sway over the minds of those whose touch it rejected." Irving's shaken countenance flashed through her mind, another image framed in blood taking its place.

Furnival nearly shot up from his chair before he gathered himself and sat back down, brows high. "The staff!" he cried. "You've seen the staff of the Nightmare Queen? Held it? Have ya got it still?"

Pyrrha shook her head with regret. "She's since reclaimed it."

"Ah." Furnival deflated. "That's bad."

"Our gratitude for your special insight," Wasila said wryly.

"But you've got to tell me—what was it like to wield? How did it feel to work magic with? And the materials—how was it fashioned?"

"Quid pro quo," Pyrrha said, tilting her head subconsciously to grant Daisy better access. "Finish your recollections."

"Hell! Ah, well, it's easy enough, as that's near the end of things. As you'll recall, Fionn and the giants built that monument to their mutual loathing of the Nightmare Queen, where she was imprisoned for ages untold. She cursed herself in her hatred for Fionn, that she may live to exact revenge on his line, and here we are."

"Elaborate," Pyrrha said, leaning forward intently. "This is the most vital point, the nature of her curse. Tell me what you know of it."

Furnival looked nonplussed. "Done that, haven't I? How d'ya imagine I might expound any further on that business?"

"The same way you've illuminated the rest of it," Pyrrha said, growing incensed in her impatience. "Records. Accounts and cross-references. Extrapolate, if you must. Her jailers had to have seen or heard something of note, for instance."

Furnival laughed with a trace of condescension. "Ya ever met a giant? It ain't quite like them to keep meticulous written histories."

"I've met giants. You well know they pass down their lore orally."

"I'll put it to ya like this, then; ya ever had a _thoughtful and enlightening chat_ with a giant? No?"

"They weren't animals," Pyrrha snapped. "If you'd bothered to treat with them, you might have learned something useful." Her building fury was only partially aimed at Furnival; she'd already squandered the very same opportunity in her single-minded pursuit.

Furnival didn't bother to hide affront. "Seems yer shit outta luck then, as I _didn't bother_ to get me head ripped off for some dimwit's musings!"

Daisy had abandoned Pyrrha's hair, leaning around. "How are we supposed to learn more about the curse, then?"

"I can't rightly say," Furnival said, leaning back and scratching at his beard, disgruntled. "Unless ya can speak to the dead, it seems there lies an impasse."

"Do you know of any ghosts from that time?" Daisy said hopefully.

"None, and believe you me, I've searched far and wide."

A heavy silence fell upon their gathering, perceptibly tainted by Pyrrha's ill humor. She met Ashlin's eyes across the table and saw her own helpless frustration reflected in her sister's expression. Furnival's account had filled in details everywhere but the most crucial point, and she couldn't help the creeping feeling that her efforts had been for naught once again, that she had lost her hand, lost Hati, in yet another of her misguided endeavors.

Compounding her dismay was the decisive tarnishing of her heritage; the way the facts fell together regarding Morrigan, Fionn, and their family's blood connection, suggested dark and ugly notions of her famed ancestor. Even if that underlying horror were to be somehow disregarded, Pyrrha now felt she could appreciate Morrigan's drive for vengeance, in light of all she'd learned.

"Tell us more about Dagda," Wasila ventured. "He didn't feature in the storybook at all."

Furnival gave her a nod over his shoulder. "He was a crafty fella, the once-in-a-century sort, like old Nicholas Flamel or Albus Dumbledore. He treasured his own genius and the artifacts born from it; the advent of staves as a magical focus, the enchanted harp which played upon emotions easily as notes, and above all, his cauldron—his very own philosopher's stone, that was, his life's masterwork. These objects of his were sought after, as ya might think, an' it made him paranoid an' misanthropic—justifiably so, I'll warrant."

Wasila sat up a little straighter. "His harp played on emotions? Do you know any more?"

"I do. It was a piece especially dear to him, a gift for his daughter. He meant the harp to fulfill her what desires she may coax from the land's people, but she was too good-hearted to take such an advantage, and so she gave it away as a mere curiosity. Bit of a tragic turn, it's said, because the harp evidently had another enchantment; it was spelled to guide the owner through all obfuscations, back to Dagda's lair—this, so that his daughter may visit him and skirt the charms which kept him hidden away."

"That's . . . interesting," Pyrrha murmured. A fantastical course of action was beginning to plot itself in her head.

"What did the harp look like?" Wasila said, glittering eyes boring into the historian.

"Finely carved oak," Furnival said thoughtfully, "apart from the neck; the woodwork there was gnarled, ugly. Decorated with pyrographic ivy patterns. The strings were said to resemble flaxen hair."

Wasila gave an elated laugh and captured Pyrrha's eyes. "I've heard tell of a harp like this—in the possession of Horst König."

"A dealer in rare magical artifacts," Pyrrha said for Daisy's benefit. Exhilaration seemed to claim her and Wasila both, a static charge carried between them.

"We get our hands on that—"

"—we use it to find the cauldron," Pyrrha finished.

It was a solution that seemed too good to be true, as had Morrigan's existence seemed too outlandish and terrible—if the one, why not the other? She had one overriding desire for the cauldron to satisfy; the singular knowledge that would elevate her to an instrument of Morrigan's undoing. Her own zeal faintly unsettled her, that she would grasp so readily after any such tenuous thread, but she had nothing else resembling an option and she burned to act against the witch.

"Hang on," Daisy said, "you think this cauldron can give us an answer? That it's just out there, waiting?"

"Morrigan was," Pyrrha said, feeling faintly dizzy. "We can't speak to the dead, as was pointed out so astutely—"

"What am I, on vacation?" Ashlin put in.

"—it's our only chance to obtain the knowledge we need," Pyrrha said. "It _must_ exist."

"No one walks away dissatisfied," Wasila repeated, securing Furnival in an eerie stare. "Isn't that right, wise man?"

"I—well, yes, but I can't speak to any of this, it's—it's out of me feckin' realm, to say the least!"

"Do you have cachet with this man König?" Pyrrha said, looking past Furnival. Wasila's invigorated smile widened.

"A few of myselves," Wasila said with a nod. "The money won't be an object. If he hasn't yet sold the harp, it's as good as our own. I'll set out immediately to make the arrangements, with your magnanimous permission?"

"In a moment," Pyrrha said. She pushed to her feet, wincing when she'd pressed the tender wound to the chair's arm; she gestured for the historian to rise with her. "You've been most helpful, sir. Thank you. We may call upon you at a later time with further questions."

"Just a minute, now!" Furnival shoved to a stand. "Glad to be a'service, an' all, but we've had a bargain! I've waited all me life for a real peek into Morrigan's personal history, even secondhand—ya _got to_ tell me all about that staff."

"Another time, you have my word. I have pressing matters to attend to. Wasila will escort you home and help to clear up the mess."

The historian's disappointment was palpable, and it took several rounds of promises and coaxing before they at last had him out the Floo; Daisy had prolonged matters by speaking up on his behalf. With so much for Pyrrha to consider in the revelations delivered by Furnival and Aradia, she couldn't tolerate any time wasted for the old man's whims. She caught Wasila's wrist on her way after Furnival.

"Only suppression, for now. We may need him again. And I want the bodies recovered and preserved."

"Done." Wasila flashed her Cheshire cat smile over her shoulder as emerald flames swallowed her whole.

The flickering fireplace held Pyrrha's gaze for all of a few moments before her eyes roamed without purpose up to the gloamy ceiling, and she exhaled a long breath, feeling utterly spent. A momentous milestone had been achieved, another flagstone laid upon a long and treacherous road. She lamented that success never brought her the peace that should correspond to the misery of failure. Ashlin's head settled on her shoulder.

"What are you thinking?" Daisy said quietly.

Pyrrha turned to face her; Ashlin was gone. "The beginning of Morrigan's end is in sight . . . and what satisfaction I may have taken here is sapped from me. Fionn McCoul," she said, "was a despicable man, and he didn't know it."

"He was a bastard, all right." The curse sounded foreign on Daisy's tongue. She slid off the table and drew near, looking with soft concern. "D'you feel badly for her?"

"She took Ashlin." Pyrrha turned her head, her hair a curtain against what her face may betray. It was a crutch she never allowed herself. "The loathing is still there . . . perhaps it's less focused. I wonder that it will linger after her death . . . but that will depend, I think."

"On what?"

"On whether I can make amends," Pyrrha said lifelessly, "for my very worst mistakes." She matched eyes with Daisy again and surrendered to the impending leap, heart in her throat. "Now is the time for you to understand me entirely, if it's still what you want."

"Let's have it out," Daisy said, a resolute light in her eyes. "Less worry on both sides. There's _nothing_ you can tell me that would drive me off."

"Then come with me and see."

* * *

They walked the tunneled halls in somber silence bereft of a telltale clicking at their heels. Pyrrha could feel her sister trailing in their wake instead, a lurking omnipresence at the edge of sight. The midnight colors in the walls bled and shifted into one another, imparting a dreamlike peace that was a pale shade of what it could be, the difference between fitful rest and the repose of death.

Featureless stone loomed ahead as a wall to bar the way. Pyrrha paused in the golden gloom before the portal, beneath the suncaps emanating their subtle scent that mingled with sour metal and settled on the back of her tongue.

"Hati let you in, didn't he?"

Daisy nodded from aside, downcast. Her hands played idly at each other. "He saved my life, held me back from the hex that was here."

"Is that so?" Pyrrha felt a pang of sorrow. Hati had so readily leapt to her defense against his pack. "It doesn't surprise me . . . Not to diminish him, but I want you to know I had you in mind, though I never meant for you to come this far. The spell would only have made you vanish until I returned to recall you."

"Made me vanish?" Daisy's arms crept up in a subconscious self-embrace. "You can vanish a _person?_ What if you hadn't been around to bring me back?"

Distress reared up. Pyrrha had meant to deliver reassurance, meant well and made worse, true to her accursed nature. The scar's latent fire seemed to feed on the strange air.

"Then someone else would have discovered you later. All your time away would have passed in a moment, as if you'd merely blinked." Pyrrha turned from Daisy to place her hand against the warm stone that thrummed to the rhythm of her own pulse; the barrier disappeared.

"Hati did the same thing," Daisy said, voice tentative and inquiring.

"The way is sealed with my blood." Pyrrha let the admission hang for a moment, allowing them both to consider the conception of their new accord. "Hati came to my defense in the Forbidden Forest. To heal his wounds, I had to invoke magic fueled by my own body. He carried part of me within him."

"Blood magic," Daisy repeated in a whisper. She looked worried and unsettled, reluctantly curious; a hopeful sign.

"Yes. It's a fascinating branch of study to which I've devoted myself. Quite beyond what wizardkind have thus far ventured to observe, I've found the blood of all life to be a sort of . . ."

While she gathered her thoughts, Pyrrha beckoned and led the way into her study, her cluttered utopia of exhaustive research and experimentation, all aglow with the emerald fluid vats and the flickering azure of the nerve cloud. The wall lamps that recalled her old home winked dimly in contrast, spilling their hearts no further than the open pages of the writings spread beneath. Ashlin stood before the stone lectern and contemplated the tome there.

". . . A sort of counterpart to the soul as we understand it, neither entirely inverse nor alike."

There was a pause in which Pyrrha marveled at the sensation of speaking aloud about the passionate drive and interest she had so long kept apart from her scant personal connections. Aradia had taken interest insofar as she could benefit, as had Pyrrha in turn for the old witch's studies of the soul, but neither had shared a scrap more than what was necessary for cohesion.

"Counterpart to . . . ?" Daisy trailed off with an expression that told of a formulating question; Pyrrha turned away to place herself before the pair of preservative vats and watched the cloudy fluid drift. Daisy joined her side. "I don't understand. We each have a soul, the essence of who we are, right?"

"The entirety," Pyrrha amended. "It encapsulates us as individuals, stripped bare of pretense; thoughts, feelings, memory, personality . . . consciousness. Personhood distilled."

"And blood is a counterpart to that . . . how?" Daisy's tone leaned more interested than disturbed; Pyrrha felt a small swell of elation.

"As the fundamental nature of the soul is transcendence, an otherworldly extension of self," Pyrrha said, "the nature of blood is that of primal worldly connection, an infinitely tangled web of mortal life."

The walls seemed to draw her voice out of the air, leaving the irregular snap and jolt of the nerve cloud to disturb the lull. Antiseptic smells seeped from the two tempered glass vats, layering over the must of old parchment and the subtle hints of blood and burning oil. The chamber's climate was almost cold enough to fog their breath, a concession to necessity, and it made evident a subtle warmth emanating from the tanks.

"So, I suppose it's like . . ." Daisy bit her lip, staring straight through the billowing pale green matter. "If the soul is individuality, then blood is . . . er—community?"

"Hm . . . efficiently phrased, and basically accurate as an analogy." Pyrrha couldn't help a pleased quirk of the lip briefly fracturing her solemnity. "The magic in blood connects all the living in our unified trial of life; charms fashioned of these bonds have the potential to transcend perceived limitations. Moreover, our lifeblood carries impressions akin to the soul, but they are imprints from the lives around us that have made their mark on ours, and have thus become a part of our enduring experience."

Daisy's eyes were wide, and she seemed to struggle, hands kneading at each other. "We've got a—a communal memory? You're saying, in my blood—in our blood, we've taken in a bit of everyone in our lives?"

"I believe it to be the case. I haven't yet proven this conclusively . . . but, yes. We hold dormant the sum of all who've touched us, from distant ancestors to passing strangers to friends . . . and family." Pyrrha waved her hand to indicate the slow-swirling liquid before them, where the shadow of a jaw had sunk into view.

"Oh," Daisy said breathlessly, clutching Pyrrha's elbow. "Oh, no . . . those . . . ?"

"My parents," Pyrrha affirmed quietly, the admission rekindling an old ache. "What was left."

There were tears in Daisy's eyes, and she tried to blink them away. "God, how terrible to think . . . to think what they must've felt. How awful. Oh, I miss them." She dabbed at her eyes with a sleeve, the other hand still squeezing Pyrrha's arm. "You've kept them here with you, all this time? Why?"

Pyrrha ran a loving hand down the warm curved glass, heart speeding with passion and anxiety. Everything that mattered to her was converging into conflict.

"Because . . . there exists the barest hint of potential. I've learned to manipulate lifeblood connections to ends thought impossible, and I intend to tap into our intrinsic flesh memories for an even greater feat . . . Just as the fantasy of true, unfettered immortality came to be realized in horcruxes, I will call upon blood magic to actualize the recreation of lost life."

The silence echoed. Daisy looked as stunned as Pyrrha felt for having at long last voiced aloud that all-consuming and unthinkable desire, the words still humming along her bones. Daisy's stricken expression gradually crumpled until she broke down, gathering Pyrrha into her arms, and she shook with the weeping she suppressed in Pyrrha's shoulder. Prickling dismay passed in lingering ripples at each little shudder.

"F-forgive me, I thought—thought so badly of you when I—Oh, of course—of course, I can't believe I couldn't see—!"

"I forgive you, Daisy, it's not even a question . . . Please . . ."

"God, I don't believe it," Daisy said into Pyrrha's shoulder. "I've been blind. This . . . this _finally_ makes it all so obvious. I don't believe it. It all started after—after—" she cast a hand at the remains "—and I _can't believe_ I never guessed at . . ."

"No . . . you couldn't have known. Don't tear yourself down for this. I did all I could to keep it from you. I'm sorry."

"But you must know—" Daisy pulled back and held Pyrrha by the shoulders, gaze wet and imploring "—you _must_ know how absolutely mad this is, how dangerous and horrible and disastrous to get _right,_ let alone what might come of a misstep!"

"I don't know anything of the sort," Pyrrha said gently.

"No, don't _say_ that!" Daisy shook her a little. "Don't say that to me! You're more brilliant than I'll ever be, you've got to understand the wrong in this! You told me yourself about horcruxes, the God-awful consequences—how is this any different? This is what's been _killing_ you!"

"I would give everything to restore my family . . . and so I have been. For them, not myself. That's the difference."

The words seemed to strike Daisy deeply, and her distress hardened into outrage; she let her arms fall. "For them? Did they _want_ this from you? Have you asked them?"

"Do you imagine they wouldn't take back their lives if they could?" Pyrrha hadn't been prepared to defend herself like this; the cornered feeling was beginning to provoke her ire.

"They've passed on, Pyrrha," Daisy said, eyes burning, face flush with emotion. "You and I don't know them as they are now, and we don't know how they might feel about being ripped away from the peace they've found—but we can bloody well guess what they'd say to a trade!"

"Fortunate that it's not up to them." Pyrrha's level tone was a deception that harbored something ugly beneath the surface, a senseless antipathy toward those who would oppress her with such inordinate caring. Only _she_ could weigh what her life was worth.

"And this is assuming you're absolutely, one hundred percent successful in bringing them back precisely as they were! What if they returned _different?"_

Hearing that underlying fear expressed from Daisy's mouth brought a chill crawling over Pyrrha, as if she hadn't truly considered it at all, and it sharpened her indignance. She turned away and approached her laboratory tables, pretending to consider the pools of red stagnant in their enchanted glassware.

"I'm fully cognizant of the risks, and I never intended to act decisively until I'd taken every missing measure and corrected every flaw in my method. If you haven't guessed that, perhaps I was mistaken, and you understand me not at all."

"Well then, bugger the risks to them! What about _you,_ God damn it—don't you care what it's doing to you? Don't you care for your _own—"_ Pyrrha startled when Daisy struck her shoulder _"—bloody—"_ again _"—life?"_ The blows kept falling.

Pyrrha clasped Daisy's fists in her hand as best she could, lowering the sundered arm raised in reflex; it was caught out and cradled in Daisy's own delicate hands, and she stared at it with an awful mix of miserable fury tainting her fair, blotchy face. She ran a thumb tenderly along the ridge of the wound, sending unpleasant tingling up the limb.

"Not as much as I value theirs. Not nearly so much," Pyrrha said. Another muted sob snuffed from Daisy in a spasm, and Pyrrha went on before it could escalate. "But I never said it would come to that. In fact, I don't believe it will."

"N-no?" Daisy looked hopeful and hopeless, intent on a glint of light in the gloom. "How can that be? Your heart, your body . . ."

"Have held up for more than two years," Pyrrha finished, a half-truth. "And I'm so _very near_ to the answer, Daisy, so near I can almost anticipate their reunion . . . Here—let me show you something remarkable."

They crossed the study side by side, Daisy's desperate grip forbidding them to slip apart as they passed beneath the dim oil lamps of the adjacent hall, and they stopped at the same portrait flanked by two doors that mirrored the Clay household. The picture's occupant watched them with detached interest from where she lay lazily draped across a velvet chaise lounge, the neck of an empty bottle dangling from her fingers.

Daisy sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with her free hand, and her voice was level, with a miraculous hint of good humor. "This had better not be what you meant by 'something remarkable'."

"Well, pardon me," Daphne drawled. Her voice was melodious and husky, faintly strained by a lifestyle of excess. "Had I expected to entertain, I promise I wouldn't be so dreadfully sober. Find me a drink, and I'll find you remarkable!" She threw back her head and laughed.

"It's heartening that alcohol abuse hasn't dulled your gift for wordplay," Pyrrha said. "How are you this evening?"

Daphne fixed her with an incredulous look that elicited embarrassment; it was a question never ventured before. "I'm faring better than you are, evidently. Was that some sort of thickheaded tip-off? Is this adorable little thing holding you hostage?"

Pyrrha hummed over Daisy's subdued giggle. "We're fine."

"Right." Daphne shifted back into her previous position, staring listlessly at the ceiling of her world, bottle swaying from her hanging hand. "I suppose you want me to stop by—?"

"No." All sparse contentment was seared away when the burn ignited again. "The—our home is gone."

Only Daphne's eyes moved, tearing away from the magnificent architecture. "Gone?"

"Burned." Ashlin stood before the portrait, a forlorn smile gracing her profile as she regarded it.

The air was thick with grief over again, as if it were a weighted net ever waiting to descend and entrap her at a single false step, at every last reminder of what was lost.

"The girl?" Daphne murmured, expression unreadable under unruly black hair.

Pyrrha turned without another word and threw open the righthand door, Daisy's shaken-off touch finding her shoulder instead. They stalled a moment at the threshold when a burst of shattered glass tinkled behind them.

"Better to burn out, I suppose . . ."

The door closed as they entered and Daisy glanced back briefly, as if she'd wanted to reply, but she stiffened when the room regained her attention.

It was an austere dwelling, the bare wood floor's dark polish reflecting dull golden light from the chandelier. Nearest the door was a cluster of dusty furniture; a small table with a pair of chairs stood upon a patterned rug, wall-mounted shelves entirely empty, the mirror-bearing dresser reflecting the room's sole anomaly upon its surface. Pyrrha's notepad rested there, pages thick with scribbled observations.

Beside her, Daisy surveyed the room with a countenance drained of color. The source of her unease could have been the room's glaring similarity to that of Ashlin's bedroom, contrived for a feeble trick of fleeting comfort upon the occasions of Pyrrha's visits. The position of the bed in the corner was partially obscured by a four-paneled partition, a perfect mirror to its lost counterpart, but for one flaw. Where the partition before them was lifeless wood, Ashlin's gift had been charmed to reflect fourfold the observer's every angle as they would appear in the settings of different lights and weathers.

Ashlin flickered in and out, her beaming smile stolen away just as Pyrrha caught sight of it. The flash was enough to draw out the memory it had mimicked and impress it vivid as if the birthday had only just passed; for a moment Pyrrha was swept up in a former life that she could only ever brush with the tips of her fingers, no matter how far she reached to feel again what had been and gone.

What lingered in the wake was the bittersweet sensation of a stab in her abdomen, the blade drawn out too soon. The scar bled warmth, and Pyrrha thought, _Thank you._

An uncertain breath at her side brought her back to the present. It was the outline of the bed's occupant that transfixed Daisy, who peered through a gap between panels in a compromise of interest and trepidation. For encouragement Pyrrha gave a nudge along as she led the way around the partition to wait beside the bed's end table, where sat a wireless tuned to Ashlin's favorite channel; an upbeat piece drifted out to be lost in a sea of silence. The signal died at a gesture. When Daisy found the will to step into view she faltered, then stumbled to Pyrrha's shoulder, clutching and leaning unsteadily.

"What . . . ?"

The woman rested in funereal repose with arms folded over precisely tucked blankets that hadn't shifted an inch out of place, and her thin and smooth outline along the length of the bed gave rise to the impression of a narrow sarcophagus. Her chest rose and settled in a detached cadence. Dark red hair spilled around a pale and unblemished face, and empty black eyes looked beyond the blank ceiling, unblinking.

Upon the bed lay Pyrrha.

Tension hung about them like the deadly haze they'd earlier escaped, awaiting the lightest tilt in the balance to bring order crashing down. Pyrrha's shoulder twinged when fingernails dug in. The reaction of mute horror hadn't been what she'd hoped for, and she found herself treading unsteady ground once more.

"I call her Nona," Pyrrha said. The silence smothered her offer as inadequate. "My ninth attempt," she went on, hesitant. "My first success."

"You _cloned yourself?"_ Daisy sounded on the verge of hysterics, breathing nearly erratic. "I'm going to vomit."

Ashlin snickered.

"You _cloned yourself,"_ Daisy repeated before Pyrrha could respond. "This—I don't know what to do. What do I do with this? There's another you?" She approached the bedside tentatively, as if the woman might lunge at her any moment.

"She's me as I was when I formed her," Pyrrha said. "In a sense. Inside her brain lives all of my history, my skills, my knowledge, my flaws. Given the proper initiative, she's precisely as capable as I was several months ago."

"She hasn't budged . . ." Daisy leaned nearer and laid a hesitant hand on the woman's arm, the contact failing to earn even a glance. "Nona?" she said, soft and unnerved.

As Pyrrha made to speak Daisy drew her wand. She drew gentle whirling patterns over the restful witch's body, a low hum filling and fleeing the room in even fluctuations. The sound faded when she shifted the wand's tip directly in front of Nona's eyes, where it emitted a violet light no more intense than an ember; the witch continued to stare past Daisy as if her mind were somewhere else entirely. The probing appeared fruitless until Daisy let out a little gasp of comprehension.

"She's—she's fully awake!" Daisy cried. "Not comatose, not charmed or cursed—what's—why won't she respond?"

"She lacks the will." Pyrrha joined Daisy by the bedside and placed a bracing hand on her friend's shoulder. "I've yet to reason out the final phase of the process, though she was never meant to be taken that far anyhow. I intended Nona to be my proof of concept, and that she has been; she's _alive."_

Daisy leaned away from their contact, pale and wide-eyed. _"This_ is what 'alive' looks like to you? This isn't a person, it's a—a husk! You made her without a _soul!_ How could you _do_ this to her—to you? God, this is horrible—!"

"Calm yourself," Pyrrha said, striving to abide her own advice; Daisy's disgust had stricken her. "She's in no pain—she hasn't the capacity to understand suffering, or any other feeling. You may as well lament how the soles of your shoes feel to be trod upon."

"What a heap of rot! Just because she can't express it doesn't mean that _this—"_ Daisy gestured vigorously at the bed "—isn't a miserable existence!"

The remonstration rang harshly while they reevaluated their standing. At their side, Nona was an immutable presence that rested with an enviable tranquility. She'd drawn Daisy's sympathetic gaze again, sorrowful brown eyes plumbing depthless black for all that wasn't there.

In her empty state, Nona could attach no meaning to any experience to befall her, and could form not even the most rudimentary thought in absence of a base identity to instill initiative. What she shared of Pyrrha was dormant, sealed beyond a rift she couldn't think to traverse; she was little more than a fleshbound library barren of readership. Pyrrha's overture to that effect was rejected with a tight-lipped shake of the head.

"I don't care how far gone you think she is," Daisy said. "Even if you're right, it's wrong. It's . . . cruel." She hugged herself and looked on the vacant body with disquiet. "I can't grasp how you can consider something like this a success."

"Nevertheless, a success is what she represents." Pyrrha's tone had flattened on its own. "Think on it. I've drawn from the echoes in my blood and recreated my living self to perfection; this means everything for my parents, for Ashlin. It means I have left only to discover how I may recall their departed souls, that I might reunite them with their flesh."

"This is utterly mad, I just can't believe . . . d'you _really_ think . . . ?" Daisy's eyes shimmered with something less than hope. "Of course you do. Stupid question. It's possible, then . . . to bring them back whole? As if they'd never—never left?"

"It's more than possible," Pyrrha said. "It's inevitable."

"And you?" Daisy pressed, almost accusing. It was subtly evident in her manner that she had a mind to relent on the matter of Nona. Her inner conflict escaped through their eye contact; the compromised feelings she directed at herself brought Pyrrha her own stinging guilt. "You'll live through this?"

"I promise." The conviction in her voice seemed to quell the worry, but it didn't abate, and still beneath bled sadness and guilt for the counterpart's circumstance. Pyrrha regarded the body again, and ran her hand up through her hair. "Oh, Daisy . . . what would you have me do? Shall I grant her an end, sacrifice all she may yet offer for your peace of mind?"

"No," Daisy snapped. "Do it for _her_ peace of mind. It's the only—only right thing that can come of this," she added with waning conviction, her eyes flitting between the Pyrrhas, hands kneading.

A protracted pause caught them up while Pyrrha stared through her doppelganger with the same distant listlessness. To terminate her greatest success would likely hinder her efforts when the time came to reconstitute her family's bodies. There were arguments swirling at the fore of her thoughts, insights that might bend Daisy's resolve, but she kept them inside. She didn't want to damage Daisy's self-regard any more than she already had. The procedure could survive Nona's loss, but she hoped it wouldn't have to.

The wand slipped easily from Pyrrha's pocket, and she pointed it without hesitation; an emerald glow shined from the tip, casting Nona in sickly pale tones that made her seem a body encased just beneath the waving turquoise glass of a shallow sea.

Daisy's hand caught her wrist, and the eerie light faded with the curse. Her words seemed to force themselves out: "Do you—do you _need_ her?"

"I don't," Pyrrha said, soft and assuring. "Of course I don't."

"But she'd make it easier, right, or—or give you better odds of doing the job properly? Something definite?"

"That's right," Pyrrha said, voice neutral. Her wand arm still aimed, was still arrested in a tense grip.

They stood interlocked like statues frozen in depicted conflict. Then Daisy brought their arms down together and let go to wring at herself, head bowed away from the bed. She cursed softly and said, "Then I've changed my mind. Let her be until she can't help you anymore, and then . . ."

Affection barely tempered the sense of defeat that passed between them in one direction. "I'll set her free as soon as it's done. I always intended to," Pyrrha said. "You have my word. Please, don't worry yourself overmuch; not even time has meaning to her."

"It's awful, but it's . . . it's for the best in the long run, I hope. Doesn't feel like it right now, though." Daisy cast the body one more regretful glance and turned to round the partition, nearly fleeing the room. Pyrrha followed behind after switching on the wireless with a parting flick. "Is there—" Daisy stopped in front of the door "—could you give her her own soul? Could you find her one?"

"It would be an aberration," Pyrrha said quietly, reluctant to shed light on the darker corners of her arts. "Two such halves of disparate beings can never be reconciled. I wouldn't dare to attempt it, even if I didn't expect disaster. What you've seen here would wilt in comparison."

Daisy grimaced and nodded, crestfallen, and Pyrrha passed her to lead the way across the hall.

* * *

The refuge of Pyrrha's chamber evoked the illusory comfort of far-removed solace. Dim and familiar, the layout was broken and buried beneath piled texts and loose parchment. The ceiling rose higher than the room's width, and beneath it, lit wicks flickered with warm light that licked at the wallpaper, candles hanging high and fixed like distant pillars bearing up an array of constellations. The melting wax breathed down a lush and subtle scent that fused to taut muscles and encouraged them loose.

A polished wood armoire stood open wide to display a mirror that reflected only billowing fog against flat blackness. As Pyrrha approached, the haze resolved into mere suggestions of faces shaped from mist; the scowl of a gaunt old man, the proud stare of a woman with sculpted features. Behind them lurked another diffuse form, less cohesive than the others, yet still faintly evidencing an eerie smile.

When from the darkness a distant yellow light kindled, Pyrrha slammed the doors shut with a swipe of the hand, rattling the wrought iron hinges.

"Damn!" Daisy said. Pyrrha glanced back to see her clutching her chest from where she stood by the desk. "What's that about?"

"Nothing, I'm sorry." A beckon threw the armoire back open to reveal hanging robes that ranged a limited selection of muted styles and colors, identical pairs of boots set neatly beneath, next to one outlying set of pristine white trainers. "Help yourself to whatever you need," she said, swiping at the clothes; the rack slid beyond the wood confines to ferry more options into view from the other end. Another flick of the hand indicated a door behind Daisy. "Through there for the lavatory. I'll help you put your own quarters together tomorrow, if you like. Are you comfortable sleeping here tonight?"

The question was abandoned to the air for a few moments longer than was pleasant. It had been a boundary broken long ago in their friendship, but Pyrrha hadn't wanted to make the assumption after all she'd bared of her intentions. Feeling Daisy's chaotic emotions hadn't given a hint to her new disposition; there was far too much activity to translate.

"Of course," Daisy said with a bit of an edge.

Pyrrha turned to face her friend and spoke just as firmly. "Is there a problem?"

 _"No,"_ Daisy said, "and that's exactly the point."

"Peculiar stance for an argument."

"Shut up," Daisy said. "You know what I'm talking about, I've only told you a thousand times that I _don't like_ when you do that—when you act like I'm off my rocker for wanting to spend time in your bloody presence."

"Do you?" Pyrrha's demeanor had retreated into a cold shell. "That's not quite the impression I've had since I brought you here."

"Been reading me again?" Daisy clutched tight handfuls of her robe at her sides, cheeks and neck coloring. "Making _stupid_ interpretations, like a blind woman matching colors?"

"As if there's a need." Pyrrha's pulse beat heavily. She shut and threw open the armoire again, and busied herself in the feigned rearranging of perfectly sorted potion vials. "It's plain on your face," she added, "I appall you."

 _"Life_ appalls me. This whole situation appalls me. Not you." Daisy's voice had passion undercut by frustration. "I understand why you're doing what you are. I might even call it the closest to the right thing there is to be done. You've never been a bad person, and you're still not, okay? Don't ever imagine I'm thinking otherwise."

"That's a weight off my soul, truly."

"Stop it," Daisy snapped. "If you're aiming to drive me off, you should know all you're really accomplishing is a more irritated roommate. You remember how that plays out, don't you?"

That made Pyrrha turn back around. The anger was still evident, but there was a light in Daisy's eyes. The reference let some of the tension out of the room.

"I remember," Pyrrha said, blindly shutting the closet behind her. As a girl she'd woken one day to find every last book in her room charmed shut, and the counterspell had eluded her until she finally stormed outside the empty home to confront someone; the tome in her arms had unfurled in the sun like a flower. "You gave my family quite a laugh . . . I could only forgive you."

"And then you stuck around with us, all according to plan." Daisy's ire faded into wry contentment. "I've always wanted your company, you twit. Nothing's changed there."

"But . . . ?" The prompt was necessary from Daisy's inflection. "You're still troubled."

"Of course I am! I hate what's going on, I hate that you have to do what you're doing, and not just to Nona." Daisy wrapped herself in her arms and spoke at the floor. "The outcome of all this is terrifying to imagine, no matter what it ends up being, but I—I'll help however I can. Even if I don't agree with this direction, it's your family and your decision, and I'd love nothing more than for you to prove me wrong and bring them back to us intact. If anyone in the entire world could make it happen, it's you."

Relief and happiness mingled to loosen the iron bands around Pyrrha's chest; they hadn't diverged as far as she'd feared. A desire to mend swept her up before she could second-guess the offer. "It needn't be that only my family has the chance . . ."

All color drained from Daisy's face, and she met Pyrrha's eyes with a haunted look. "My—my mum?" she whispered. "You think you could . . . ?"

"It's nearly as possible, I think," Pyrrha said gently, navigating the reaction with uncertainty. "I can't say this definitively until I've made the attempt, but it could turn out that my connection to her is too tenuous for the process to be viable. In that case . . . it would be down to you to undergo the procedure in my place. You or your father."

Daisy's hands shook where they met at her waist. Her wide eyes were fixed on her own clasped fingers, white and bloodless as her expression. "I—I don't know, that's—I mean, I can't—"

"You don't have to decide anything right now," Pyrrha said, closing their distance for a calming hand over hers. "The offer will always be open. Take all the time you need to think on it."

"I'll—I will. I'm so grateful, Pyrrha, _really,_ I just . . ."

"There's nothing for you to explain," Pyrrha murmured. "I think it's about time for the day to end. I'll prepare you a bed while you wind down," she said. "Help yourself to whatever you can find."

A comfortable silence settled around them like a worn-in cloak while they reenacted a far gone childhood and performed their familiar bedtime routines. Pyrrha vanished and lifted possessions away, and the clinking and humming from the washroom recalled better nights spent wondering at the merits of grooming oneself so extensively before sleep. Ashlin's snickered observation that their contrasting appearances proved the results elicited a soft laugh as Pyrrha conjured a luxurious set of bedding across the room from her own.

The day's trials crept in to curl around Pyrrha's bones while she worked, dragging her down from the inside. A few wordless and mellow minutes later saw them abed under scant candlelight. Like no time had passed since the first stay over, they watched the shimmers of the wicks through the glossy liquid wax that dripped upward around the flames, each glowing drop striking the ceiling with a peaceful hiss. Where they landed their imperfect whiteness echoed outward across the ceiling like fleeting moonlight ripples on a dark pond. In the smothering arms of sleep Pyrrha began to know profound peace.

A radiant glow filled her eyelids, and she shot upright full of rushing blood, mirrored by Daisy at the other side.

The source drifted through the room as a pearly apparition in the shape of a sea turtle; it settled at Pyrrha's bedside and peered up at her with fathomless pale eyes.

 _"Harp sold off."_ It was Wasila's voice. _"Gone to track it down."_


	14. Chapter 14

Horst König had proven pliable as any mark, for all that he'd styled himself a world-savvy man of wisdom and culture. If she'd wanted to make him squirm, Wasila could have remarked that surrounding oneself with special things didn't make a person at all remarkable themselves.

It wouldn't have been Wasila's mouth moving, of course, but that of Liesel Meierditch: a well-respected and entirely fictional laureate of Durmstrang's exclusive Silver Sunburst Award for the Expansion of Magical Lore and Understanding—an accolade so exclusive, in truth, that it too did not exist, a fact that only enhanced the impression it could make. Exactly what lore had been expounded upon, specifically, was a joy to invent and reinvent as the scarce opportunities arose.

The little games kept her sharp between roles.

Well out of sight of König's squat and homely brick haven, Wasila watched her patronus fade into the falling dusk over twisting dead trees that reached after the stars with rime-coated fingers, pure white pinpricks that seemed to notice the silvery blot streaking beneath and shine the brighter for it, as if to exult in their elevated state. The crunch of frostbitten leaves beneath her boots halted when she did. To the ear the world then almost vanished, but for the cold breath of the wind skimming the stiff earth's powdery blanket of snow. The same chill air brought a pleasant burn to her lungs.

There was little wonder how Pyrrha would receive the news. She was a deceptively simple woman, at heart, but no less intriguing for that truth; an exemplar of power and will, molding the world around her with the tools of an architect and the capability of a child, the carelessness, leaving behind one mess after another in pursuit of her ambitions. But scattered in her wake wasn't toy blocks or upturned sandcastles: bodies. Destruction. And like the rest, she hardly seemed to glance back.

Liesel's frozen face cracked into a wide smile that didn't quite belong there.

She disappeared without a trace or impression left behind, apparated so neat and quiet the forest had forgotten her memory a moment later.

* * *

In the huddled, frost-coated wizarding village of Nachthase, there was an appointment to keep. To keep, but not to attend, and there was a difference.

October was early for ice and snow, but the little hamlet wore it over shuttered windows and slate roofs like the pale hide of some hibernating herd, clinging icicles and hoarfrost all aglitter under the wan morning sun. Wasila traveled up the cobblestone streets flanked by homesteads that woke even as she passed, curtains fluttering open here and there of their own accord to reveal glimmering firelight framing the sleepy activity within. Some who came to their windows lingered to wonder at the stranger to their insular town, and Wasila would have returned a cheery wave, but the person in her boots was a grizzled man with a face made for glowering. So glower she did, paying slightest heed to maintaining the slight shuffle in her gait.

To appear as a perfect stranger amidst a setting so intimately familiar with itself might seem a mistake, but the meeting place was just that: a convenient rendezvous point on neutral ground, in the plain sight of the public, which afforded a sense of security that was, of course, all but entirely false. Who meant to find Liesel Meierditch here as agreed upon were strangers themselves, strangers bound for disappointment.

Their precise affiliations were the focus of the exercise. König had arranged the appointment at her behest, had called upon the middle-men who had brokered the deal for what had to be Dagda's harp, and he'd assured her with almost endearing innocence that the buyer intended to receive her directly. Anyone that went about their business through intermediaries, especially concerning transactions that were entirely, unquestionably _legal,_ would have their dealings with persistent inquirers in much the same fashion. The farcical assurance had cemented her current course of action.

Not far ahead, at the slippery street's end, the town's square was drawing into view. Already the denizens of the surrounding houses had cast off the last lingering doldrums of sleep and were departing in steady trickles of life. Doors squealed, groaned or banged open and let free witches and wizards at the front of countless breakfast-scented gusts of warmth, with some carrying on parting thoughts, well-wishes and arguments up until the moment they vanished with a _crack._ Others kicked off on brooms, while still others plucked up irregular objects that had, minutes before, appeared on the lawns from nowhere in a burst of blue light, and they were then stolen away by the same. From some dwellings all that issued forth was a telltale flare of emerald flicking past the gaps in window shades and door frames.

The last and least of the departers were those rare creatures who lowered themselves to walking. They eyed Wasila with a healthy mix of reactions before turning and finding their own ways, deeper into town or ahead to the square, where shops and other labors awaited their attendance. Some fell easily into step and conversation when their paths converged, and some glanced over at her with half a friendly offer on their faces. In keeping with her character she wore her disinclination plainly, advancing on the plaza at a dogged, brisk pace.

"Hold on there, old man! Stop, I said!" The voice from aside came gruffly, from lower in the chest than was normal for the man; it was an aggressive response to unease, and it was plainly meant for Wasila.

She ignored the man and kept walking, the irritation on her weathered-stone face no longer entirely feigned. There were drawbacks and weak points to any plan of attack, and here one closed in on her with an energetic stumping stride. Scattered eyes were drawn from up and down the road as the wizard caught up and set himself in her path with the belligerent air of an authority catching out an egregious wrong.

"Is there a problem?" Wasila's voice was like scored bark, but the German was flawless, accent and all.

He was a broad young man with ruddy cheeks and hair like straw. Moments earlier she'd watched from the corner of her eye as he'd left behind a tired witch cradling a burbling bundle in each arm.

"Haven't seen the likes of you around here," the wizard said, crossing arms beneath thick brown robes that bunched about his defined musculature. The statement of fact was spoken like a condemnation.

"Never met someone you haven't met before?" Wasila said dryly. "Quaint."

"Don't like the look of you," the man said, "skulking about where you've got no place. Don't like the sound of you, either. What's your business in Nachthase, vagrant?"

Wasila would make light, try to get under the man's skin, but he wasn't Wasila. It was grave happenings that brought Anson Brandt here. He had to play this with care; theirs was already a scene that would stick out in memory, but the damage could yet be mitigated with a quick disengagement.

"And who are you to tell me where _my_ fuckin' place is, eh? Go fuck yourself raw." Brandt's self-righteous inflection was just so, that conveyed the implication of ties to the town. "My business is none of yours."

"Yeah?" The wizard stepped closer to loom, radiating hostility. Brandt didn't move; they were nearly chest to chest, sharing the fog of their breath. "I see a shifty old bastard I never seen before eyeing up my street, my _family—then_ I get real interested, see? I get _curious._ So I'll be having that answer now, or you won't like what I've got to say, I promise you."

With meticulous care—the wizard's glare was intense and unblinking—Brandt let his own dour expression falter into a perfect blend of penitence and a distracted sort of distress. "Right . . . I can understand that. Of course. Got to watch out for kin. Only thing in this world worth a damn, isn't it? Family."

The man's stony countenance softened almost imperceptibly, but he only grunted, heavy brows still furrowed in anticipation. While he waited, Brandt took a rough breath and grimaced before speaking again.

"Looking for my brother," he admitted. He let the reluctant pause stretch for the appropriate time. "Had a falling out, years ago, but I know he lives around here somewhere. Or he did. I don't fucking know. Just know I've got to find him before our mother passes . . . didn't mean nothing by it," he added in a mutter, jerking his head back in the direction of the wizard's home.

"Looking for your brother," the wizard echoed with a skeptical thoughtfulness. Brandt's face was now carefully composed of honest exasperation, and a far-off quality that bespoke the plague of tragedies beleaguering his imaginary life; the wizard saw it and stood back half a step. "Well."

There was a pause in which an apology might naturally pass one way or the other. It didn't, but the ghost of it colored the man's tone. "Well, don't you think you'd have better luck asking around, rather than roaming about and gawking? We're friendly enough folk."

The last was said with a rueful quirk of the mouth, and Brandt gave a chuckle as he was meant to. "Could be you're right. Could be . . ." He scratched at grey stubble. "Could be I almost don't want to find 'im, you know? Don't want to dig things up, but . . ."

"Complicated stuff, family," the man said, noncommittal. He lumbered aside and gestured ahead, falling into step beside Brandt when the invitation was taken. "So talk to me about your brother. Maybe I can point you in the right direction, eh? I know Nachthase better than just about anyone, I'll tell you that much."

What few bystanders had straggled to watch their confrontation moved on disappointed as they made their way up to the market square. Brandt kept up the act while they conversed, searching the faces of those who passed into view with a curated expression of halfhearted hope. His answers were nebulous enough to be both credible and useless. The wizard—Heinrich, after introductions—made admirable thrusts at providing worthwhile insight, but his efforts were quite literally for nothing. Wasila had to work to keep a sly smile from sliding onto Brandt's face during their side-along stroll.

The square was both cozy and spacious, the same smooth cobblestone paved from corner to corner. Lamplit shops and business fronts all faced inward at the centerpiece: a tiered stone fountain sharply carved and crowned by a hare three times the natural size. The animal alone was shaped of glossy obsidian, gleaming eyes nearly alive where they peered back over a shoulder, its body poised to take off running.

Already there were stuttering streams of people pouring into the square all around, and the rattle of doorbells rang at each come and go. A gaggle of children swooped and shrieked across the clear white sky, putting broomsticks through their paces, their general direction inclining away from a distant storm of motherly shouting. Pink smoke that smelled of peat poured from the windows of an alchemist's building, the vapor curling up along the shacklike edifice's towering ivy-wrapped exterior. All about was the compounding buzz of life and activity; the perfect environment to conceal oneself in plain view.

Heinrich had turned from a problem to a distinct edge; in the company of the amiable man and his chatter Brandt was no longer a standout, an outsider to the droves. Anyone watching with purpose would think nothing of the pair of them amidst the diffuse masses. A gesture was enough to steer their way toward one of the low stone benches encircling the burbling fountain; the bench raised itself a little to accommodate Heinrich's bulk.

"Shouldn't be stopping, really—have to see to the kidder hounds, you know—but I've got to think I can give you _something_ to go on," Heinrich said, rubbing his calloused hands together against the brisk air. "Let's see . . . old Fryda's been here since—well," he chuckled, "since even before the hare saved Böhm, seems like. Ancient. Take what little you've got to her instead, see what she can make of it. I think that's your best bet. Long memory to match the lifespan, that one."

"She live on Trist?" Brandt named the street which had never housed his imaginary brother.

"No, but she's, eh, how do you say—adjacent? Along the next street. Heilig, number forty-two. Good fucking luck with that hag," he added, thumping Brandt's shoulder. "You'll need it."

Heinrich had shifted his weight as if to stand, and Brandt spoke: "Now hold on—why's that? Can't toss me to the firaxans without a wand, can you?"

The wizard rocked back down and let out a laugh. "Ah, I could, but you're right, old man—not very sporting of me. Anyone in Nachthase could tell you what a piece of work that woman is, and they'd all have a different story to set before you in precedent, I wager."

"Ah. So what's yours?"

Brandt kept one ear tuned to the tale being told while he scanned the square with practiced nonchalance. The designated point of contact was the veranda outside Netta's, a vibrant spectacle of a diner situated opposite where they sat, past the fountain. Between gently shimmering falls of water—subtly parted here and there with little gestures concealed by shifts in posture—the bustling patrons were visible as they caroused and flitted from table to table with no boundaries assumed in their transient groupings. The greater part of them exhibited shadows around the eyes and impaired coordination; a sleepless night's revels carried on.

The swarm of activity made an obvious outlier of the contact. A spidery man with stringy black hair sat stiffly in the shade of the awning cupping a steaming mug in his hands. His shrewd gaze flicked from the movement around him to passers-by along the courtyard, and Brandt watched him mark women from the corner of his eye as they approached, and dismiss them when they continued straight on past the veranda.

The lookouts were only a smidge more difficult to catch onto. Three of them. One man haunted the inner side of a broomstick trader's window displays, making a performance of his indecision; another lurked among the gardens outside the apothecary further off, never seeming to find what he sought among the particolored bushels and shoots of magical flora; last was a woman ostensibly preoccupied with her reflection in the mirrors suspended outside a beauty supply. What betrayed her act as unnatural was the non sequitur of her drab wardrobe, an understated affair tailored not to merit even a passing glance.

A small huff of impatience visibly escaped the contact as yet another prospect passed him by. Beneath his table he drew a wand from his pocket and swished it, the motion familiar even at a distance, and Brandt allowed a brief grim smile that was repurposed for reaction toward Heinrich's tale. The spell had been the one Wasila anticipated as obvious; the spell of life detection. A lesser player of the game might have thought well of arriving invisibly, until the discrepancy of their lifesign shining in empty space brought everything crashing down.

The contact locked eyes with Brandt for a heart-stopping split second; the traitorous instinct was to turn away, to dart his gaze far in another direction, but all his reaction was only the barest shift until he peered instead at the tumbling waters between them. The monologue at his ear was drowned in a rush and thunder of blood. Flesh prickled. His face remained utterly still.

Then the instant passed and it was as if they'd never matched eyes at all; the contact's attention swept the rest of the square before turning back to his mug with regard that seemed to resent it for a personal wrong.

Brandt's heart still jumped about, pumping needles and lightning; there was never a thrill to match that of a close call.

At last the recountings of old Freya's spats with Nachthase folk wound down, and Heinrich mirrored Brandt's sigh of relief. "Crazy old arm-flapper. That poor boy only wanted his quaffle back, you know?"

"Of course. Might've tried the same, I were him."

"You'd have regretted it just as much, too," Heinrich said with half a laugh. He had taken to Brandt's example in watching the lives playing out around them, though with markedly less intent. "That's what I'm sending you into. Hard to feel like I'm helping you out."

"Appreciate it all the same. I think I'll follow your advice."

The proffered hand was taken and they shook firmly, their parting farewells muffled by the swelling traffic; Heinrich lurched to his feet and started away, diving into the scattered streams of village folk which diverted around his broad frame. Not five steps on he stopped short and stalled for a moment, and stared ahead in an unfocused way, as if he'd forgotten where he meant to go. A harried witch clutching her shopping stumbled aside and cursed at Heinrich as he abruptly veered back the way he'd left and sat down again beside Brandt, who aimed a wand surreptitiously from between sleeve and forearm.

"Welcome back," Brandt murmured. The wizard met his eyes with a blank stare—that wouldn't do. An unspoken directive had Heinrich grinning exactly as he would for an old friend. "Don't fret; I won't keep you long."

For Wasila, there was no thrill of power in the act of subjugating another; it brought instead a feeling of taint beneath all the many layers of self, to invoke that perfect antipole to all that magic should be. The curse gripped her coldly in the claws of memory, but those had no place in Brandt's head—yet still they found their black-cloaked corners and burrowed in. Her face was numb.

There was none of this turmoil outside her head; to all eyes they were, as they had been, two comfortable acquaintances engaged in conversation. It was the suggestion that Brandt was someone else, a familiar face plucked from the wizard's head, that breathed life into the theater between them and made them part of the background, and from this invisible fold Brandt observed the observers.

Shouts of alarm and laughter preceded an outpouring of crackling sparks and flashes from the windows of a joke shop somewhere beyond their backs, drawing no more than amused or annoyed glances from from all around the plaza, with a certain sense of custom implied in the ready reactions of the townsfolk; Brandt mirrored their nonchalance without a thought.

The outliers betrayed themselves another time in their atypically curious craning and peering, the only souls not to surmise the source of the disturbance in the space of a huffed breath. They were otherwise a mindfully nondescript lot, and as a result Brandt could glean little from their manners and dress. Their presence and number was enough, however, to insinuate the type of person they might belong to—the clever and cautious type, with resources to spare. A dangerous sort of entity to pursue. Dangerous and _exciting._

Morning made the slow downward climb into day and the cold thin pall of mist clinging feebly to the square was dispelled by the sunshine beaming flat and sickly, as if the clouds had scrubbed all color from the light on its way between their coarse grey shells. Not one moment of silence could pass unscathed in the square; it was brimming with voices at every edge, with striding boots and swishing cloaks, and the occasional squawk and cackle of a few squirrelly creatures with froglike hind legs leaping between rooftops and smoking chimneys.

A lone house elf tore into being with a sharp _crack_ not twelve feet away. With a proud bearing that defied all preconception he approached the fountain, clasping something in his slender palms. Looks of bemusement and pity piled themselves onto the elf's back, and so defiantly upright it stayed that he seemed to shrug away the attention entirely. A flicker of gold winked in the air as the creature cast his burden into the bubbling fountain; the coin landed with a _plink,_ and the elf was gone.

The little spectacle had barely registered in Brandt's periphery; one of the lookouts had abandoned his post by the broom shop's windows. The wizard stalked along the outskirts of the square and bounded over the steps up to Netta's packed veranda, shouldering revelers aside with efficiency. The contact, still alone at his table, favored his cohort with a sour look as the wizard threw himself into the seat opposite.

Brandt's wand whirled in tightly contained gestures; to the unassuming, the movements were mere idle twitches. The enthralled man planted beside him leaned over and spoke again, but the sounds didn't come from Heinrich; Brandt's wand was now aimed from the waist directly at the contact, across the plaza and its fountain, and from the tip resonated the hushed voices of the surly pair.

"Liesel Meierditch?" the contact asked sardonically, running spindly fingers over his face.

"Funny. She's near an hour late now, you know. Bitch isn't coming." Brandt mouthed along to the other wizard's speech, performing the second half of the act for the benefit of passersby.

"Ah, you're probably right. Damn it," the contact said, groaning and stretching, "that makes this little outing an even greater waste of my time than I thought it'd be." He scratched at his dark stubble and frowned, hooded gaze roaming the crowds again. "Couldn't have made us, could she?"

"She's a fucking scholar," the other wizard barked. A witch herding her children past Brandt's bench turned back long enough to shoot a nasty glare. "Not a chance in hell she'd have noticed anything unusual. No-show, for certain. You swept for lurkers?"

"Keep your voice down," the contact snapped. "And watch the jargon, idiot. Of course I did. Once every twenty, just like father taught me. Nothing out of place."

"No-show," the wizard repeated decisively. "Probably realized she can't afford to spend a decade's earnings on a pretty instrument. Makes her the only one with any sense in this, albeit late to show out."

"Because it couldn't possibly claim any value beyond what _you_ can perceive."

"What about it could be worth struggling over? Any wizard with half a brain could spell themselves a functioning harp like _that._ And here we've got old Whiskers shelling out about thirty times more than the going rate for a professionally charmed harp from . . . ah, I don't know . . ."

". . . Can't you name even a single purveyor of enchanted instruments? I wish I were surprised, but you have about as much culture as a crup gnawing on its ass."

"Tch. Asshole." The wizard ran a hand over his close-shaven head. "Signal the dispersal already, would you? I'm getting tired of your attitude. And you'd better work this out with the geezer," he added, leaning forward heavily. "I don't care that nothing got done; I showed up, I get paid. Got it?"

"I'll pass that along," the contact said with clear indifference. His shrewd little eyes darted about the packed plaza one last time. A moment of calculated carelessness saw his cup elbowed off the table, shattered ceramic shards jittering across the stonebrick veranda.

The other wizard had already apparated, and his distant fellows caught onto the cue and followed suit with rather more discipline, vanishing one by one after suitable intervals; it was the sort of protocol that tallied another point in favor of an organized syndicate. Last to leave was the contact, who had quickly repaired the cup with a passable exhibition of sheepishness; he milled uncertainly among the restaurant's patronage until he'd ceased to be there.

Brandt sat back and allowed a thoughtful hum as his companion responded to a mental prompt and resumed a deluge of inane chatter, pitching his voice to resemble the one he'd been impersonating. There had been much to learn of the hired wands, and Brandt was satisfied with what knowledge he'd wrung from their presence and behavior. An invigorated shiver ran through him; the outlined path had wound in a most interesting direction.

Despite their efforts, the wands had spoken in neat German that was nonetheless subtly accented. What narrowed them down even further was the particular use of 'jargon', as the contact had put it; quite apart from hinting at structure, the verbiage couldn't help but strike up a slew of Wasila's memories. Put together with references to 'old whiskers' and 'the geezer', there could be but one wizard behind the orchestration of the harp transaction.

What sealed her notion beyond all doubt was the snatch of thought Brandt had stolen in the heartbeat of eye contact, an image floating at the forefront of the wizard's mind as he perused the faces of the Nachthase public. The vision was that of an animated photograph which Wasila herself had captured long ago; it depicted her persona Leisel Meierditch, smiling prettily before the austere backdrop of Durmstrang's torchlit Gathering Hall. Sat on her lap in prideful display was the award she'd forged, a lacquered wood plaque embossed with ceremonious silver lettering.

Across the bottom of the picture, her persona's name was scrawled in the unmistakable hand of Claudius Drang.

* * *

The examination of the traces left in the wake of their apparitions had yielded little of value; it was almost worthless to know their heading when they were, in all likelihood, meeting with a set of previously arranged portkeys somewhere appropriately remote.

Almost worthless.

After tracking the contact to an anticipated dead end, Wasila had hijacked the disgruntled wizard's destination with the same devilishly tricky bit of charmwork, and had consequently found herself standing outside a run-down bar some three hundred miles off, by her reckoning—a seedy area, with narrow streets and alleys packed beneath frosted mud, interconnected magical dwellings of faded brown brick encroaching on the walks like the walls of a desolate labyrinth. The character of Brandt had been right at home, and upon finding his quarry already rather deep in the bottle, he had inveigled the information needed with ease. It hadn't been anything Wasila's knowledge of Drang couldn't have narrowed down, but every hour saved was essential against something like Morrigan.

All the trouble had led her here. The chill of the German climate was easily forgotten beneath Egypt's burning midday sunrays. Menaphos was a hive, sweeping sandstone arches and buildings flowing together and diverging in improbable ways; they were always shaped differently upon her subsequent visits. Everywhere there were silk-curtained windows, balconies and other apertures open to the streets and neighboring homes, and the populace traded themselves in body or voice across every avenue of sight. Some floated above it all upon flying carpets, a few hovering still to converse among the darting owls, but most soared this way and that laden with provisions or children or tools of trade.

The streets below were equally lively. By day they coursed with crushing traffic, and every last person seemed to have something urgent to declare in a holler to a far-off acquaintance. Tucked here and there along the edges were shifting stalls manned by hawkers and fortune-tellers, trinket-pushers and purveyors of homemade sweets—these were most often beset by boisterous children, who otherwise congregated in back alleys and side streets to engage in mischief away from chastising eyes. Light and flowing robes with rich color and rippling cut demanded the eye, often paired with self-wrapping turbans or gleaming bands, bangles, anklets and tiaras that shifted tint to complement the wearer's garb.

Honor duels were a spontaneous and frequent occurrence; it was a rare evening one could walk the winding streets without hearing a bellowed challenge or a resounding _bang_ of a spell striking home, or seeing dazzling bursts and flashes of light emitting from around a curve or corner. Most often an established etiquette was observed: the clearing off of bystanders, the charmed barriers around an impromptu arena, the public airing of grievances and terms for posterity. Often, but not always, and those struggles that sparked out of nowhere were contained by whoever at hand had the gumption, or else they spilled over and became streetwide affairs. At times even quarreling neighbors might exchange spellfire across the alleys from their second-story windows or rooftop terraces. In Menaphos, authorities were a rare and unwelcome sight.

That fact made it an ideal hub for illicit business. Drang's safehouse was situated snugly in the center of it all, a respectable distance from Crooked Concourse, yet not so far as to be inconvenient. Wasila observed the building from the open-air gallery of the city's most towering minaret. Wearing plain and dusky features, silken robes of a commonplace cut, and a disinterested expression was enough to ensure her relative privacy among other sightseers.

So far removed from the streets laid out below like a vast diorama, there was a glaring absence of the smells of spice and sweat, the burning ozone of landed curses and the citrus tang of intoxicating smoke seeping from the pores of the leisure houses. Wasila leaned against the balustrade and breathed in the breezy currents of clean air drifting through the open balconies at every side, the scent given substance by the heavier hint of baking stone rising from the sides of the tower. A conjured lens the size of a window floated before her, and through it she watched the quiet dwelling Drang had made a transitory residence.

Of course, she hadn't yet caught out anything of consequence. She didn't expect to. Drang was an outlaw beyond compare, widely sought after and yet not at all infamous; there was no lawkeeping body on the planet that would publicly acknowledge the embarrassments suffered at the old man's hands, him and his cadre of collected outcasts. Often as not when something of irreplaceable value vanished from its holdings, or when assets were unaccountably liquidated, transferred, drained or withdrawn; when a prohibitively exotic and illegal product saw a startling market infusion, or when a high profile individual met an unnatural end; when entire shipments of Class A materials went up in smoke or when widely espoused legislation failed to carry through, it was Drang the governments wanted to prosecute for it, though they never knew that.

He was a living, breathing avatar of criminality, and he'd taught her quite well. It was her due diligence to stake the place out, even if nothing would come of it, though that wasn't the entirety of her reasoning; sometimes a girl needed a minute to breathe, to sit back and watch. People were vile and fascinating creatures.

Three streets and an alley down from her mark a beggar had settled into a corner by an intersection with a promising volume of traffic. He was suitably pitiful in appearance, but the tatty, sun-bleached clothing and unkempt beard belied the enterprising nature of the man; unobserved to all but Wasila he had, minutes earlier, applied some concoction across his weathered face, achieving a blotchy pattern of mold-colored hives around the eyes and mouth. It was a serviceable emulation of the most evident symptom of wraithblight—an affliction painful to endure as it was to behold, yet neither terminal nor contagious.

As sympathy scams went, it struck a canny balance. Too mild an effect and the effort was wasted; too intense, and some relentless kind soul foisting a cure might be the scheme's undoing. A profitable hour passed before the beggar was driven off by a peacock of a witch who walked arm in arm with an equally resplendent wizard, whose posture had stiffened after the confrontation; four streets down, the argument ended emphatically with a backhanded slap.

Meanwhile, the swindler cradled his gains like a firstborn son as he made an efficient journey down the less reputable sectors of the city, angling toward what Wasila knew to be a narcotic nest. Sand kicked up and coursed upon rising wind currents fluting through the avenues, for a time casting all shape and form into grainy shadows haunting the streets, resulting in more than a few collisions and oaths as the beggar pressed on. Wasila's eyes followed him by his hunched posture until the wind died back down.

A scant few avenues apart from his destination, he was accosted on a quiet lane by a gang of unkempt youths. They drew their wands and encircled the man, calling out with jests and taunts, and they amused themselves by practicing spellwork on the beggar. Despite his roars of outrage he turned colors, his hair ripped itself out, his clothes changed into dirty feathers that scattered in the breeze, and he was left with naught but the precious bag of sickles which was also plucked from him in short order, between hoots of hilarity and disgust.

Never did he produce a wand of his own, save that which came as a natural consequence of nakedness. A squib, or someone with the critical moral failing that was a lack of proper education. Lack of power.

Not for the first time, Wasila wondered if she might see things much differently if she'd attended Hogwarts. Wondered if she might never have cultivated the deep tangled roots that bound her up in a backward hatred, a loathing antithetical to the world she'd been born into. But it wasn't productive to dwell, particularly now that fate had allowed her a chance to kick over the scales.

"A good afternoon to you. What, ah, what are you doing there?"

The voice broke her from her musings; Wasila turned her head from her telescopic lens to the man now leaning beside her against the balustrade. From his keen expression and exaggerated casual posture it was clear she was about to endure a sally of inelegant flirting, and she found herself not of a mind to make light of it just then.

"What's it look like?" she said flatly, attention back on the broad lens. "I'm trying to incinerate my ex-husband."

The wizard gave a startled laugh that trailed off uncomfortably when her expression remained deadpan. "I, ah, I see. Pardon me for interrupting that, and my further apologies, but I believe I've just seen a friend of mine . . ."

The wizard shuffled away, taking with him the last of Wasila's introspective inclinations. She vanished the lens and apparated directly into the bustling streets below.

* * *

Drang's building blended well among the upper crust of Menaphos. The sandstone facade was sculpted in an understated and elegant style, a withstanding testament to the skill and good taste of its transfigurer. It was framed in fixtures of burnished bronze that all blazed in the sun as if barely withdrawn from the forge, and the windows were high and arched and dressed in deep colors to ward off the day. The edifice was crowned by a typical spiral cap that presented the illusion of a slow rotation as sunlight shimmered down along its curved bronze edges and grooves. A finial fashioned in the shape of a wand jutted up from the spiral's tip to prod at the deep blue sky; by night, it and all the rest like it would gleam with charmed light at the tip, bathing the lanes below in gentle moon-yellow hues.

It was the work of several minutes to probe the building's featureless flanks for the hidden entrance that was sure to reside there; invisibly Wasila traced her hand along the smooth grooves in the stonework until she felt a response tremble up her fingers. With careful spellwork she unmade precautions and unveiled the passage lined with burning braziers, the light spilling from their bowls bitten back neatly at the jaws of the threshold, that the shine gave nothing away from the outside. Shaded between the butting shoulders of two grandiose structures, behind the inset pillars rounding outward at even spacings, the entrance was indeed well concealed from all but Wasila.

Down dim passages muffled by fine carpet and tapestry she went, a pleasant jaunt if not for the periodic brushes with grisly death when she identified and took apart wicked curses against intruders. The further she traveled, the more oppressive the atmosphere felt; the air itself seemed to push against her with clammy hands as she advanced through low-ceilinged corridors. At length a broad set of steps loomed ahead to relieve her; it conveyed her up into a vestibule cloaked in the same dark blues and purples that obstructed the windows and stained what little natural light crept in, supplemented by brass lamps hung from fine lengths of chain. At an end the entrance doors stood like a bulwark against any that might dare to seek audience, and opposite, a flight of limestone stairs parted in two to branch off toward deeper wings.

Wasila paused by the reception hall's coruscating hearth and held out her hands to ward off the unnatural chill of the lower level. Hung prominently above the fireplace was a portrait of an old witch with stormcloud-grey hair beautifully styled and threaded through an ornate set of golden rings. She stood in the mouth of a barren street that looked to have been hurriedly abandoned; possessions were strewn about the cobbles and doors hung agape on their hinges, the dismal scene weighed down by an overcast sky.

The witch peered down with distaste, and Wasila responded with a wry smile. "Regards from Wasila."

There was a pause before the reply, as if the old witch were listening to something. "Could've knocked," she said.

"I could've traveled from Germany by unicycle as well, but why in the world would I impose that upon myself?"

Another brief stretch of silence. "Follow the lights, wiseass." The old witch's musical accent meshed horribly with Drang's vocabulary.

As she was bidden, Wasila ascended the staircase and traveled the course laid out for her by the lamps that shone brighter, one after another, as she passed them through sparsely appointed chambers and corridors. She suspected that, for Drang, the house's enchanted architecture would have contrived to forego this leg of the trip, depositing him directly from the dungeons into wherever he meant to be.

In good time she came upon the correct door and stepped inside without preamble. The room was low-ceilinged and broad, and fledgling shadows crouched in cramped spaces between practical furnishings that sat staidly beneath the same manner of glowing brass lamps, these affixed to the whitewashed stone walls rather than dangling free. A capacious bay window was thrown wide to invite the bashful midday gusts, but the punishing sunlight shied away from the aperture, leaving its vicinity as pleasantly dim as the rest of the chamber. Wasila approached the window for a peek at the view; it looked out from the face of the building to the sprawl of city life up and down the lane, even though no open window had been visible from the outside, and despite that Wasila was certain the room was situated somewhere against the building's back.

Wasila turned to consider Drang. He sat waiting at one side of a low table littered with ash and scraps of parchment, wiry arms resting on his knees, knotted hands clasped and deceptive in their stillness, their emptiness; in the space of a blink they could have already flourished a wand and left someone insensate. Coarse and lined features lurked beneath a burdened brow, grown over by a grizzly layer of grey-white beard and close-cropped hair. The old man's cold gaze barely thawed upon studying her face, and somehow he managed a condescending grunt. His hoarse voice scraped the eardrums raw, a sound Wasila had always likened to that of an improbably large and articulate old cat.

"Little Erin. Ever the disappointment." Drang's ghostly grey eyes were all that moved as he took in the rest of her ensemble before meeting her gaze again. "How many times have I told you to wipe that goddamn smirk off your faces?"

Wasila hadn't been smiling, precisely; Drang had decades of experience with every quirk, tic and microexpression of hers, an omnipresent and nearly irrepressible foundation underneath all her vast ranges of facial features. A mentor's privileged insight. It struck her then that he might know her true appearance better than she did now; for years uncounted she'd shifted from one false face directly to the next as they suited her.

"Dear _Claudius,"_ she returned, claiming a seat opposite. "Whyever would I want to hide myself from you? Apart from that atrocious American inflection of yours. It's you I'm here to see, after all."

Drang chuckled like his throat was coated in sand. "Shouldn't make it so blatant when someone hits a nerve. What was it, exactly—that I know your name, or that you still don't know mine?"

"I was a child," Wasila said, feigning a pout. "You're hardly a criminal mastermind for getting it out of me."

"You're still a child."

"My point stands," Wasila said lightly. "As if any of us might've had the foresight to compose a false identity before we'd had our first wands." None of her irritation showed; she leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile meant to pique interest. "Pleasant as it is to reminisce, we've already hit upon one subject of this visit; one of your wayward wards . . ."

"Straight to it, huh?" Drang leaned back thoughtfully in his chair, crossing his arms. "Well, this is something I gotta hear, isn't it? Never was much that would get you to shut up and focus. Be concise about it," he added sharply, as if concerned he'd come across too amenable. "Got my own business to handle."

She couldn't help pouncing on the opening. "Not only your own, I've heard," Wasila said, enjoying a tickle of amusement at the old man's twitch. "I was a mite surprised to find you've branched out into the occupation of _personal shopper._ It's rather tame for you, but I suppose age wrests compromise from us all. But pay me no mind; you must be positively _brimming_ with pride. Not everyone has the talent and daring to distinguish between floe-cotton and dillywool fabrics at a glance."

Drang grunted, unruffled. "Time's ticking."

"Ah, of course it is," Wasila said. She took a moment to rearrange her robes about herself. "I don't suppose you remember Pyrrha Clay?"

"Mmm . . . a ransom job, wasn't she? Take of two hundred thousand?" Drang scraped at his bristled cheek without a trace of feeling in his features. Wasila didn't bother to answer the rhetorical, and Drang said, "What about her?"

"Well, she's grown to become an associate of mine, and I'm now rather invested in her success . . . unfortunately, she's dragged us into a spot of trouble." Wasila folded her hands in her lap, tone carefully reasonable without a hint of reproach. "Might you agree that you owe the poor dear some small consideration in recompense for her late mother's fortune—not to speak of the trauma inflicted by your methods?"

"Hm. Putting aside that any 'trauma' stems from her own fragility? I might," Drang said, inflection leaning heavily toward the negative. "Good thing it's not her come asking me for help. Just give me the whole picture," he added before Wasila could protest. "And if there's something to be done, _you're_ assuming the debt for services rendered. I should be insulted you'd even attempt to weasel out of it, but it's good to see you're still out for yourself first. Might be the closest I've ever come to pride in you."

In as few words as possible Wasila delivered the gist of recent events and the Cabal's predicament. Her brevity wasn't to appease Drang, but to safeguard what knowledge she could afford to, while also sparing them both essential time. The old man listened with impatience deeply impressed in his expression until she concluded.

"So, to parse the rambling: you need the harp." Drang produced a cigar from his robes and lit it with the tip of his finger, taking a grateful drag. Chalky yellow smoke drifted from his nostrils and gave the room a bitter taste. Eventually: "You sniffed _me_ out, but you couldn't track the buyer?"

"I could, but given your great fondness for expediency," Wasila said pointedly, "I thought I might be afforded the luxury of skipping that step when I discovered how you figured into this situation. But you've gone taciturn. Don't tell me some goldfish-eyed spoilblood has you on a leash?"

The question shook a laugh from Drang, but it was the kind that delighted in exclusive and pertinent knowledge; the phenomenon wasn't quite as amusing on the other side, but Wasila found it in her to appreciate the reversal nonetheless.

"Nothing like that," Drang said. "It's bad for business to give up a patron . . . I hope I don't have to spell out why all over again."

"But you know very well I can eliminate our tracks. Those excuses don't apply to me. Come now—stop playing coy, or I might suppose you've nurtured a yearning for company in your dotage."

Drang snorted and shook his head, puffing yellow smoke around his harsh features. "Say I give you the buyer. You steal the harp and, what, serenade the thing to death? You're too involved in this, practically breaking every goddamn commandment all at once—what's the endgame here?"

"Morrigan's death, of course." Wasila turned her head to peer out the window over domed and spiraled rooftops gleaming white and gold. "I said so only moments ago."

"Don't bullshit me. What's in this for _you?_ Why should I toss you a shovel down at the bottom of this fucking hole?"

"Is that concern I hear beneath such colorful language? How sweet." Wasila didn't want to think about what she wanted, didn't want to betray herself with any flicker of emotion in her face, any tremor in her voice.

"I'm concerned you're wasting my time," Drang said lowly. "If you can't give me an ironclad reason to condone this farce, well—I'm sure you can find your own way out."

From the corner of her eye she saw him glance at the window, as if entertaining a summary defenestration then and there. Despite the front he put up, it was apparent beneath his abrasive manner he didn't want her to risk herself pursuing the course she intended. It was perhaps the one redeeming quality that had secured Wasila's loyalty; if he'd lived as callous as he pretended to be, she would have put him down the first time the opportunity presented itself. For him there was love and loathing bound indivisibly.

She could sense that convincing him would call for a genuine emotional display, and then nearly regretted requesting any help; expedience now came at more than one cost. She despised baring herself even in a misleading manner, most particularly with Drang, who already possessed more pieces of her to work with than anyone else.

But soon it would be too late for that to matter.

Not nearly all of her buried emotion was allowed to surface; just enough to bring mist to her eyes, a twitch to her lip. Just enough to bring her airy voice down to earth to besmirch itself skimming the dirt.

"This is important to me, Claudius. It's—it's everything." Wasila gave a faint laugh of disbelief, matching her expression. "It's as if . . . as if my heart's won free of my chest and won't return. I don't have any choice but to follow alongside, no matter that it heads straight into danger."

"Christ, spare me the poetry," Drang said with an upraised hand, leaning forward with a look of intense scrutiny. From the corner of his mouth the cigar's cherry lit his profile in sinister crimson. "You're not telling me you're _in love_ with this woman?"

Wasila met the look with her heart full of long-lost familial love conjured from unvisited depths, and in her mind the emotions were twined with thoughts of Pyrrha as a veneer to shelter behind. "I . . . yes, I believe I am."

No truth but her own could assert itself in her mind as she withstood the stare; it was—had always been Pyrrha with the loving gaze and ready laugh, the steady shoulder and forgiving ear. It was the prospect of _her_ loss that fueled the latent dread ever grinding away at Wasila's ambition from the most furtive recesses of her head. There was artful disarray to the mindset she portrayed, muddled and half-obscured in a pretense of defense that rang with sincerity and shame and barely contained upheaval. Incisive grey eyes picked her apart with scientific skepticism and upturned nothing to betray her masquerade.

Drang was undeterred in his disbelief, lines in his face drawing tight with pique. "Hippogriff shit. After all you've seen and all I've shown you, this is _not_ how you turn out. For a goddamn girl?" He shook his head in disgust, as if trying to cast off an unpleasant sensation. "I never pegged you for one stupid enough to dive headfirst into this kind of trap; would've left you to the streets if I had. Quicker and kinder way to fall. But this is—you're holding _something_ back, and—"

Wasila's laugh was high and strained; she could feel her smile stretched too wide, broken. Her voice rang with fabricated passion. "Of course I am! I'm holding back just as much as I can manage, because it belongs to _me._ Climb down from your perch, you miserable old fraud—as if you've lived so long and never loved someone! Only a blithering idiot could miss that such a reductive philosophy sprang from some great loss, and as you so shrewdly pointed out, I'm not a stupid woman. Hear this well: it doesn't have to end for me the way it did for you. It's my gamble to make, and there's never been a risk more worthy of the taking. Now," she said, gathering herself with a breath, "will you put aside misgivings and do your part to tilt the odds in my favor, or have I gravely misjudged the spirit of our partnership?"

In the wake of her outburst Drang exhibited the nearest approximation to shock she'd ever witnessed from him; his gnarled hands gripped the arms of his chair as if he were adrift at sea, and he leaned back beneath a clenched brow, jaw locked around the cigar. It burned absently between his lips for an age, the ruby-red tip sloughing off dustings of ash that drifted down to settle on his lap. Pale wisps of smoke trailed up around ashen bristles.

At length Drang said levelly, "This is what you're throwing in for? Nothing at all to do with, say, Morrigan's staff, or Dagda's enchanted cauldron?"

Wasila's heart leapt back, but she kept it from her face and voice. "Nothing at all," she repeated, adding with a careful acquisitive grin, "though what boons we may happen upon on our course will be more than welcome, certainly." It was the perfect amount of inclination displayed, neither too intent nor uninterested; she smothered her self-satisfaction before it could take breath. "Above all things is putting an end to Morrigan before she corners Pyrrha. That's what I'm driving at, and as I've said, I need the harp to see it done."

"I don't believe you," Drang said quietly, chasing a chill up her spine. He plucked the cigar from his mouth and jabbed it toward her. "It's something else you're after, something you think I'd like even less than this preposterous lie you're trying to spin—and isn't that something to think about?" He leaned forward and bowed his head, elbows on his knees, taking one long drag before settling back into his ponderous posture.

By the grace of experience Wasila reined in the alarm and dismay circuiting through her nerves like a lingering curse. She had failed, but at least she'd given little away, and while Drang would withhold his aid, he wouldn't dare to interfere; she could make certain of that here and now.

"I'm sorely disappointed, Claudius, but it's valuable to know where we stand." The lilt of her voice had gone painfully false, as if in poor impersonation by some malevolent will inhabiting her shape. "Make no mistake that you've lost me as surely as if I'd died for my misjudgments. Now listen well, because I want this to land _very_ clear: should you scrounge up inside you the audacity to attempt to subvert us, I'll have little trouble—"

"Settle down," Drang barked.

There was a promising note of thoughtfulness in his command; Wasila heeded him but remained poised at the edge of action, hardly daring to entertain relief. Her wand was a twitch and a thought from appearing in her hand out of thin air. Animal instinct yielded to her self-control and she remained motionless, maintaining a keen stare as Drang mused to himself, chin resting on his clasped hands. Apparently oblivious to the precipice Wasila teetered on, he smoked and breathed and otherwise moved not at all.

The silence felt primed for ignition, and it hung that way for a stretch of minutes that felt much slower. The window across the den permitted no light and no sound, as if there weren't an opening at all, but another painted landscape alive with a charmed imitation of motion in the shimmer of the sun coating the rooftops or the lazy passes of birds across the great empty sky. A breeze like warm breath carried in and caressed them, sending ash and parchment shreds skidding from the table. The bitter yellow smoke was chased off for a fleeting moment; Drang took another lingering drag.

The wait became such that it wore down Wasila's patience. The instant she'd decided to stand up and take her leave, Drang said, "Fine."

"Pardon?" Her limbs still buzzed with unspent energy.

The old man met her eyes with an unreadable look and shrugged one shoulder. "Said it yourself; you can get what you need with or without my help. This way, you owe me."

"I'm in awe at the application of such flawless reasoning," Wasila said icily, "not accounting for my supposed conspiracy against your interests."

"Hm. What can I say? I want to see just how far you can go. Don't look at me like that—I'm giving you what you asked for."

"I'll look at you how I please, if I can't avoid the experience altogether." Wasila's stony expression didn't budge when Drang snorted. "That accusation was brazen as it was unfounded. I thought better of you, after all our time together."

"Uh huh," came Drang's dry rebuttal, as if he still didn't believe a word. It was maddening; where had he drawn such assurance? She'd been flawless. Was it an act, a last ditch effort to shake something loose?

It didn't matter; there was nothing to be gleaned from her deportment, and their business was nearly concluded. "Out with it, then," she said after a rallying pause.

Drang gave a nod and reclined back, impossibly relaxed. "Understand, I can't just blurt out a name and call it a day. It's like I said: bad for business. I'm a man of principle, my word is my bond, and all that." He waved the cigar dismissively, grinning like a shark. "Wouldn't be right of me to take on a contract and then undermine the good faith placed in my character. You'll have to work out on your own who _purloined_ the harp from under you."

Wasila stared at him while she processed the peculiar emphasis. Hadn't there been an above-board transaction? Where did theft come in?

Drang heaved a long-suffering sigh and added blandly, "You might've glimpsed my client's distant cousins prowling around the city . . . licking themselves, eating garbage, hacking up hair . . ."

Then several things clicked at once; Aldemena couldn't exactly attend to her affairs personally. Wasila gave a low chuckle of genuine amusement. "Well, there it is. So you're not 'old Whiskers' after all."

"No. One of mine said that out loud?" At her nod Drang shook his head and muttered something about 'dumb fuckheads'. "Sounds like some reinforcement's in order."

"Oh, don't be too hard on them; I'd have learned it all regardless what they did. Nothing escapes me," Wasila said with an impish wink.

"Aside from unprecedented volumes of hot air," Drang said dryly. He beckoned, and a glass met his hand, amber liquid quivering at the abrupt flight. "Careful not to get too comfortable with that false bravado. Too long on the skin . . ."

"It may sink in," Wasila finished, smiling. "Harbor no worries for me, Claudius. I know myself dreadfully well."


	15. Chapter 15

It was a striking sensation to wake shed of strife. In the moment before the delicate stasis between rest and awareness dissolved beneath the ashen candlelights, Pyrrha was already pondering the basis for another approach toward the resuscitation of their parents—theirs, hers and Ashlin's, who yearned for them and deserved them like nothing else. The belated state passed by the time her eyes opened to the patter and pulse of glowing drops across the ceiling. Then the neglected sorrows recalled their element and settled back in to roost among their kindred, numb pinions fluttering between her ribs, painfully rasping stone talons finding their grooves and perches inside her hollow chest.

Nothing in the world weighed so much as her coverlet did then, or her arms—her arm lifting it away. Pyrrha had a notion of a familiar hand in hers supporting her as she rose, guiding her away from the bed and the pall of despondency that clung loving and possessive around her, like the embrace of a devoted consort. The scar faintly prickled and chased away the chill in the air.

With a soft word and gentle nudge Daisy was roused. They spoke bleary nothings in undertones while carrying out morning routines, pensive and distantly anxious, dawn's quiet grey spirit sinking into the dim-lit den in spite of its windowless isolation. Pyrrha waved her hand and the candle wicks flared into renewed life, like trembling stars signaling their twilight hours. By the bone-white glow she rummaged through the enchanted armoire for all that the day may call for. At her shoulder Ashlin glowered at the closet, and the memory of yellow eyes in the foe glass flickered. Pyrrha shut the sturdy doors.

Daisy emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy towel, golden hair dripping, and she cringed back at the threshold.

"Damn, I forgot how cold it was in here!" She scurried out to snatch her forgotten robes from her bedside and darted back in. "And what's with that light?" she called from beyond the door. "It washes the room out something awful, you know."

Far from being an annoyance, the nitpicks were a comfort in their familiarity, their normality. Pyrrha had always been divorced from normal, and obvious social conventions could escape her as a result. She had oftentimes appreciated Daisy's kindly-worded course correction. The echo of their dynamic fulfilled something in her.

A small sigh slipped from Pyrrha, and she gestured; the temperature rose and the candlelight shifted to a warmer, more natural tint.

"Any other problems?" she asked with a faint lilt of sarcastic accommodation when Daisy reemerged not a minute later, fully robed and hair done flawless.

Daisy grinned, and then it fell a little; Pyrrha's satisfaction sank with it. "There certainly are," she said heavily, "but nothing you can sort with a flick of the wrist."

The atmosphere adopted a somber weight as their minds settled back into the situation, considered the scope of all that was against them. The continuous relocation of the Lodge set them ahead of Morrigan's eternal pursuit, ahead of the dark ends of which they could only speculate; there were many fates worse than death, and any of them could be the purpose for Pyrrha's capture. It didn't matter—she didn't intend to learn firsthand.

"No," Pyrrha said quietly, "but sort them I will."

Daisy had turned the scribing chair away from the desk and settled in with her legs tucked up. She watched Pyrrha with old fondness. "I've always admired that—how you never doubt yourself, that you have it in you to do what needs to be done . . . no matter all you're up against."

Across the room Pyrrha perched upon the foot of Daisy's bed, staring down into the glossy reflected lights waving as if beneath the surface of the polished wood floor. "It's an outlook that has served me well on countless occasions . . . and on others—disastrous. But I can't approach the world any other way. To rely upon forces outside of one's own control to ensure needs are met invites disappointment at best."

"I remember your mum saying something like that," Daisy said thoughtfully.

"It was a favorite maxim of hers. 'Only count on yourself'."

Daisy giggled. "You've always been her little twin. I remember when we were kids—sometimes you'd say the same things, or react the same way at the very same instant, and then she'd laugh, and you always got all quiet and pink."

"Yes," Pyrrha said, enjoying a small warmth in her stomach, for once nothing to do with the curse. "I was afraid for your reaction, when it became clear that my parents were my closest friends."

"As if I hadn't a clue already!" Daisy said with a good-natured laugh. "You never ate at Hogwarts without a fortress of books between you and everyone else. D'you remember the look you gave me when I nearly dripped jam on that Galvanizing Charm treatise? Absolute _murder."_

"I . . . yes." Less welcome memories of Pyrrha's asocial behavior trickled in to dampen her mood with shame. "I apologize for how I treated you then. I still can't quite believe your resolve to badger me, though I'm glad for it . . ." The question came so naturally she wondered that she never asked before. ". . . but why? After the way I acted, what inspired you to persist?"

Daisy grinned a little uneasily, a trace of pink blotching her face and neck. "Well, actually, I—er—after that first _incident_ in second year, I decided you were awful and I wouldn't be speaking to you if I could help it."

The encounter in question had occurred in the transfiguration classroom. Partnered up cross-house by the Professor, they had made stilted introductions, and Pyrrha had proceeded to satisfy her share of the assignment in minutes and then retreat into a book. Daisy had struggled and pelted her with questions, and Pyrrha's answers seemed only to confuse her further; at the time Pyrrha had been near certain the girl was feigning ignorance, in order to get on her nerves. The irked declaration she'd made to the teacher still echoed in the back of her mind to bring waves of shame when the memory dredged itself up.

"Go on," Pyrrha said gently; Daisy had anxiously awaited her reaction, twining her hands.

"Right, and so . . ." Daisy took a steadying breath, and her voice leveled out. "So that summer I came home and told my parents _everything_ —quidditch and lessons and nasty teachers and new friends, the whole lot. And one of those days I mentioned you, of course, and I told Mum just what I thought about you and your attitude."

The direction of the narrative became clearer, and Pyrrha felt a brush of fondness and guilt for Mrs. Pitcher.

"I still remember the look on her face while I described you, sort of angry and let down, right? I couldn't believe she wasn't with me." Daisy leaned back to face up at the floating candles with a faraway look. "She told me I hadn't a clue who you really were or what you were feeling, that the way you presented yourself, the way you alienated people might be a defense. Anything might have happened to you to cause that deterrent behavior. She told me the only right thing to do," Daisy recited carefully, "was to show you the kindness you needed, even if I wasn't rewarded for it—especially not then."

"Wise of her," Pyrrha said. "I don't suppose she thought well of my parents."

Daisy smiled. "Not until she met them, no."

"But that doesn't explain why you attached yourself to me thereafter."

"Well," Daisy said with a tilt of her head, "after what Mum said, I was disappointed. Sad at myself, and for you, but it wasn't because I pitied you. Only being nice in passing felt like the barest minimum; I wanted to do more, be more; I wanted to actually _help,_ to do my part to counterbalance whatever awful thing might have happened to you. So," she finished simply, "I decided to make you my friend, and let you figure it out in your own time."

Something seemed to stir inside Pyrrha, and she depressed it back into sedation. It was at once both startlingly clear and inconceivable how entirely alone she could've ended up were it not for the Pitchers. Solitude was a state from which she took great satisfaction, but there was a fair span between solitude and isolation, and it dawned anew that the good fortune bestowed on her was most undeserved.

"You remind me of another of my mother's adages; deserve what you want." Pyrrha rubbed idly at the prickling scar, feeling as if her person hoarded debt for a perverse sort of greed, without prospect for satiation. "I fail her. I can't even venture to say that I deserve all you've already afforded me, but that won't keep me from the pursuit of it. Thank you, Daisy."

Daisy's face took a familiar shape, some mixture of sympathy and exasperation, and what she would say was already rising up behind her eyes; Pyrrha headed off the fruitless assurances.

"Much as we might like to while away the day, we've things to accomplish . . ." Pyrrha stopped with her hand halfway outstretched toward the armoire, instead drawing her wand and conjuring a full-length mirror. It floated between them at an angle for both to see by. "Byron Berners," she instructed, bespelling it with a gesture.

"We do?" With a motion of her own wand Daisy set her chair drifting until it came to rest nearer. "I'd thought, with that odd woman after the harp . . ."

"I expect Wasila to yield results before sunset tomorrow," Pyrrha said. "We'll await her, but not idly. Our task today has naught to do with Morrigan."

Before Daisy could respond, the mirror's empty black surface rippled and resolved into Byron's quarters. What was on display was so orderly as if to belong to a complement of house elves; every article of furniture sat in perfect alignment at ratios that appealed to the eye. Nothing was askew. The style was modern and unpretentious in the way of one with concerns magnitudes beyond trivial decor, functional above all, with a glaring exception.

The room was set afire by a coruscating phenomenon contained within a frosted globe anchored by a sturdy silver frame in the center of the room. An alchemical reaction captured at the moment of catalyzation, the flaring and bubbling energy within the globe exhibited a beautiful array of aurora-esque colors that churned with none of the swaying grace, a spectacle of radiant volatility entrapped in glass. The light cast off by the centerpiece filtered through the vessel into steady brilliance that seemed to shine from anywhere, as if wherever one sought to look, a modest sun tucked just out of sight lit the view at the perfect angle.

Nestled in a fine leather armchair at the globe's periphery was Byron, returning their looks with wary anticipation behind his crooked spectacles. A book sat open over his knees.

"I set it stirring just an hour ago," Byron said, sounding a touch defensive. He scratched at his unruly brown hair. "I expect we're near halfway to Singapore."

"Good," Pyrrha said. "The vapors remain your priority, but I'm calling on you now for another purpose."

She paused before elaborating to evaluate his reaction. His frown deepened a shade and he shifted awkwardly, leather upholstery faintly creaking beneath him. He remained ill at ease around her; he was right to. "Might I inquire, ah—?"

"Naturally, but I'll save you the breath. I have need of your Polyjuice brew—eight hours' worth, at the least. Convey it to my quarters directly."

"Oh," Byron said, failing to conceal the relief lifting his tone. "Polyjuice? Yes, of course. I'll, erm, have it sent right over. My most refined mixture will hold a shape for ninety-three minutes per standard dose," he added, "provided that no incompatible substances are imbibed or otherwise introduced in the same timeframe, of course. I've managed to narrow the margins of body mass variance into negligibility."

"Ninety-three?" Daisy sounded impressed. Then she frowned, and Pyrrha felt her recall the expertly crafted Kindledrake trap; her tone flattened to the barest overture toward civility. "That must've taken quite a bit of work—but I imagine the results have paid off tenfold." The word _results_ carried a hint of pointed disapproval.

Byron picked at his stubble, a tic of irritation. His voice came similarly stiff. "Not quite—not for me, at any rate. I provide for the Lodge's needs, as well as my own. Incidentally," he said more lightly, "a great friend of Pyrrha such as you should consider yourself more than welcome to approach me with any professional inquiries. I'm sure I could be of some assistance in elevating your technique to match her exacting standards."

Daisy's cheeks colored, but it seemed to mark ire more than embarrassment. "That's quite the boast, unless it's somehow escaped your _steel trap_ of a mind that the brew takes a full moon cycle to mature."

"Short notice, of course," Byron said absently, his eyes back on the tome in his lap. "I take it she asked after your stores before putting this request to me?"

"Obviously." Daisy bit the word off, driving a glare at Byron's bowed head.

"I've not finished with you, Byron," Pyrrha said after a moment. "Close the book."

His face gave an irritated twitch as he complied, and Pyrrha felt a flicker of contentment to have nettled him as he had done Daisy; in so doing he had meant to stake claim to what little autonomy he could scavenge, even framing the demand made of him as a request. She let the phrasing pass and waited until his eyes were on hers again.

"I find myself with time to spare," Pyrrha said, "and an overdue conversation to engage in."

"Oh joy," Byron said with a sigh. Tension seemed to wire his limbs rigid despite his indifferent front.

"My sentiments precisely," Pyrrha said. "I believe I have a thorough reckoning of you, but I want to hear in your own words why you thought to stand against me."

The answer came readily as it was anemic. "You know well that I really had no other option."

His gaze wavered and darted while Pyrrha waited, maintaining an expectant look across the mirror portal. Silence crawled heavily between them, capricious as an aged beast, and Pyrrha thought for a moment to spot Hati sitting staunchly beside her and matching her penetrating stare. There was Daisy instead, brow furrowed over a complicated frown that meant disapproval mixed with sympathy; for all her displeasure toward the man she was loath to take satisfaction in Byron's intimidation. Her expression appeared as a silent plea for him to break the stalemate.

Always was Pyrrha skirting the thoughts of those around her, a practice that had gradually become second nature. Refined by the years, she could feel foreign intentions and ideas brush gently among her own like converging currents of air, like traveled breaths passing across her neck from all who shared her relative space. Her own liminal touch was lighter than air, lighter than breath, and it ghosted unnoticed among the sacrosanct dimensions of the minds that surrounded her. While she watched Byron she exerted herself that he may feel the presence that ever enveloped him; she impressed her will no further than the outskirts of his occluded consciousness, and he gave a wide-eyed wince.

"No need for that." Byron's voice cracked a little, and he cleared his throat. Pyrrha rewarded his response with a cessation of pressure. He went on after a gathering pause, face set in a reluctant grimace. "I'm afraid any explanation of mine might only be so many more words to say what I've said already; I chose the only option available to me, truly. Ask me what you like, if it'll get at the heart of this."

"There has _never_ lived a soul with but one course of action before them, and you are not the exception." Pyrrha's words fell infused with iron, low and intense, and she felt as though her glare could melt the mirror glass dividing them. "Are you so narrow-minded that I must present you with each and every alternative you failed to consider? I haven't the time. Take into your smog-addled head the fact that every breath since your betrayal is drawn at my leave, and keep that well in mind before you think to test my patience evading explication."

"Merlin's bloody beard," Byron said, running a tremulous hand across his pale forehead. "I'm _sorry,_ Pyrrha, alright? It's—it was—everything was normal, and then it all went to hell in a matter of _minutes,_ there was no time to reflect—Aradia rounded us up and declared you a traitor, a madwoman and a terrorist who had set loose a monstrosity! I could hardly believe it, except—well, the look on your face after the meeting, I . . ." He shook his head a little, delivering his words toward a point past Pyrrha's shoulder. "I didn't know what to believe, frankly, but Aradia was there and you weren't. She was our overseer. Even had I thought I could've defied her edicts and live to tell about it, even if I were _sure_ it was the right thing to do, I wouldn't have done it. I need the Cabal."

His voice hardened into a semblance of resolve at the last few words, a sort of self-affirmation apparent in his inflection. A thought was shining in his eyes, fixed and distant, but as real before him as the book in his lap. The nature of it was veiled from Pyrrha, but a sense of love and duty emanated from him in a sensation reminiscent of Ashlin's influence on her own mind. The insight did something to settle her.

Pyrrha didn't let on. Her voice still chilled the air like a mortal keen; she leaned forward into Byron's eyes, hand in her lap resting over the sundered wrist, and said, _"I_ am the Cabal."

" . . . So you are." Byron inclined his head, wary and weary, all strain and stress throughout every movement.

"I would know my role in your ambitions."

Byron's eyes shot up to meet hers, incredulous and worried. "You mean to pry into my affairs unprompted? That's against Cabal conduct."

"I must applaud your extraordinary gall—"

 _"May need a hand for that,"_ Ashlin snickered.

"—to raise any sort of protest against the very one whom you profess to need." Pyrrha quelled the old smile threatening to crack her composure, the reflex exhumed by Ashlin's irreverence. Her heart had lifted and settled in that precious moment. She went on as though it hadn't: "Codes of conduct are subject to change or dismissal at my discretion . . . I suggest you abandon your desire for privacy if you wish to remain."

Pyrrha said the last with a murky ambiguity, and she was gratified to see the alarmed wonder crossing Byron's face. Beside her she heard Daisy's robes rustling, shifting with unease in the pause that followed.

"You—is this what you wanted?" Byron's stained fingers clenched white around his book. "You called in to wrench this away from me, didn't you? Not to hear and understand my side of things."

"Don't forget the Polyjuice," Pyrrha said, sitting back with patient contentment.

"Goddamn it," Byron snapped, snatching off his glasses to rub at the dark rings under his eyes. "I'd always imagined there might be _some_ semblance of humanity beneath that bloody blank stare of yours, but you've made it quite clear I was mistaken."

The barb merely pricked at her, a brief snag to be shrugged away. Pyrrha allowed the silence to resonate in his wake and did nothing but favor him with the look that unnerved him so. Once she would have disliked to find herself at odds with Byron, whose company she had considered rather pleasant, but such sentiments had died when his trap sprung around Daisy and herself, a devious flexion of the full extent of his abilities. He hadn't held back; neither would she.

Byron lifted his head from his hands and glared between the pair before him. "Must I broadcast my business?" he asked sourly, jerking his head toward Daisy, who sat forward with a look mingling pity and curiosity.

Pyrrha considered a moment, shook her head, then rose from her chair and strode through the mirror. The light that enveloped the room was dazzling but not blinding, not glaring; she saw with crystal clarity Byron startle backward in his chair at her entrance, saw the little beads of sweat glistening along his hairline, the bunching wrinkles in his upshot brow. The chamber smelled pleasantly of spring water and cedarwood.

"Blasted hell! How'd you—?"

"I thought I'd been clear," Pyrrha said, eyes roving the chamber, "regarding my distaste for wasted words."

Outside of the mirror's purview, bookshelves housed fine-lettered spines spelling titles for an encyclopedic range of content that comprised an indiscriminate mix of the practical and the recreational. Apart from the shelves sat expansive vitrines packed with hinged wooden cases, racks of vials, decanters, flasks, neatly sorted drawstring pouches, a tiered arrangement of hazelwood bowls filled with organic additives, and a dozen pale jars sculpted from floo ash, smooth and glossy as a fissure eel's underbelly.

The slap of a discarded book upon the nearby side table drew Pyrrha's attention back. Byron stood with the same stiff unease and shifted as if to step back, yet his heels were set against the chair behind; Pyrrha's half-step forward brought them within the scope of mutual discomfort, decidedly imbalanced in influence. Byron's taut expression remained aimed at the floor.

"Eilith tried to kill you too," Byron whispered bitterly. "More than once, and, might I add, employing rather more deliberate methods. But you've let her be."

"I have her bond." Pyrrha spoke just as quietly, though they were alone, less than an arm's length apart. The vibrant illumination of the muted chamber imparted an unearthly quality to the air between them, as if they had convened within some deafened, blinded realm displaced a step outside the bounds of reality. "I understand her. Regrettably, it seems such an accord between ourselves is further from fruition . . . yet more words that I didn't care to hear, Byron; I'm afraid you've left me with a revulsive set of options."

She drew her wand, gave it a neat backward flick and stepped aside in time to miss the gout of blood from Byron's throat. He stumbled to his hands and knees after the dripping red tongue ripped away, the appendage floating just out of reach, and there he knelt before it, gasping, gagging and retching against the font of gore that sputtered from him and drenched the carpet, coated his convulsing chest. The blood gushed with the gentle sound of water from a weak faucet.

Wet coughing and choking gasps were all the sound in the room for a calculated interval. From the vacated chair Ashlin looked on with a distaste that seemed to twist her face into a shape it wasn't meant to take. Byron shuddered and flung out one sodden hand from where it had been clamped over his mouth, lunging toward the tongue and stumbling to the floor just short, his movements already sluggish and uncoordinated. Pyrrha could almost feel the familiar cold lightness beginning to take hold, the numb panic and the deathly stupor. She watched his frantic pleading eyes and felt only a sharp irritation at what his defiance had driven her to.

There were bounds to blood loss that couldn't be crossed without risk of no return, and Pyrrha had an acute sense of their extents, but it wasn't her own life draining away this time. An upward flick and Byron was wrenched above the floor by the neck, and a prod forced his grisly jaw to gape—it gave way with a low _crack._ Another motion aimed with care, and he shrieked himself hoarse while smoke billowed from his throat and the sizzle of searing flesh inundated the air with rare sensations. Pyrrha's arm fell; he collapsed to the floor again where he writhed and clutched at his face, bleating ragged noises.

"Turn away, Daisy," Pyrrha called; from the corner of her eye she saw the horrified expression pressed against the mirror.

Another drunken lurch missed the riven tongue; Pyrrha had nudged it further away with a gesture. She noted with nebulous interest the futile fixation Byron's panicking mind had seized upon, as if reclaiming what he'd lost was all that would save him. His low guttural moan dragged on and escalated into an insensible roar of pain and rage.

"I'll grant you that outburst," Pyrrha said over the wet, hoarse groaning. "However, I'd much appreciate that you finally absorb the lesson I'm attempting to impart. I've made no more than the necessary inquiries, and you've responded in every which way _but_ the correct one. I'll return your tongue," she said, setting it drifting out of reach yet again, "when you demonstrate to me that we've reached an understanding, you and I. If you're quick, I might even consent to mend it."

The distressed rasping and gurgling carried on and fell into a sort of tortured rhythm, and Byron began to gather himself. Planted on all fours, he stared at the floor and shook and shuddered, body heaving against the breadth of the pain coursing through it. With another raw groan he shoved himself upright on his knees and teetered a little. Glimmering blood coated his ashen face and slicked his neck, a few thin rivulets still trickling, trailing, winding down like lurid tears. His gaze was that of detached shock, wide and glassy; it wandered the walls and at length found Pyrrha, and then to her he nodded jerkily, crooked mouth still hanging agog to expose the blackened base of his tongue.

After some quiet contemplation, Pyrrha said, "Very well. Use it wisely; you've not yet breached the bounds of my patience, but the moment draws nearer each passing second I spend in this room."

With a series of elegant swishes and whirls Byron's restoration took effect; first came the _click_ of the jaw bone setting itself back into place, relieving his face of its ghoulish slack-jawed grimace. Then with a faint hiss Byron's mouth emitted a dim white light as if he'd caught a starfly inside. He breathed a relieved sigh while the flickering spell ran its course, the breath tinged with a leafy scent that carried unnaturally far and faded along with the glow; the pain was sapped away, the damage undone, and his rigid posture came unwound.

A final flourish guided the tongue into its place and mended the flesh, melded it back together while Byron coughed and grunted in discomfort at the sensation. He was slick with sweat, caressing his jaw with pale hands that tremored as they probed and pressed at the set of it, and he flinched away when the congealing blood coating his person puffed into mist and subsided. Byron appeared to assess himself, mouth working experimentally, one hand sliding from his jaw down to depress the pulse at his neck while he counted in a barely audible murmur. Then he hauled himself to a stand and made unsteadily for the reading chair, collapsed into it, and turned his baleful, dazed gaze back on Pyrrha, his every breath strained and rattling.

"I . . ." Byron coughed and cleared his throat. His voice came hoarse. "My intentions haven't changed, nor has my—" he coughed again "—my arrangement with the Cabal. My assistance for yours." He broke from his jagged glare for a moment to glance at the mirror behind Pyrrha, then lowered his voice. "I'm developing a cure for the vampiric condition."

A few laborious beats of silence marked the gravity of the admission, silence weighted with the vulnerability Byron had at last exposed. Long past was the necessity for threats; Pyrrha had manifested her will, and it was beyond doubt to both of them that she wouldn't hesitate to use the knowledge wrested from Byron to devastate him, to despoil all that he hoped to preserve and protect, as his betrayal would have wrought upon her. It wouldn't come to pass; arm in arm with outrage and trauma, she could nevertheless mark the defeat in his eyes.

"Ah . . . I see. Ambitious. A cause worthy of your prodigious talents, I should think. Thank you for sharing this with me." Pyrrha disregarded his incredulous expression, turning back to draw up to the mirror. Daisy watched her bloodlessly. "I can imagine no reason that our alliance should fail to prove equal to this aspiration of yours, in good time. All I would have in return is your loyalty until the day we resurrect Aradia, whereupon I plan to abdicate in her favor."

"If Morrigan doesn't have her way with you first," Byron muttered through gritted teeth.

Pyrrha looked at him over her shoulder, and he winced. "Either way, we need not suffer each other for too long. Something to look forward to, yes?"

She motioned Daisy back without waiting for an answer, preparing to pass through the mirror again, but she stopped with the spell at the edge of her thoughts. Her pause had frozen Byron; his faint creaking shifts in the chair abruptly silenced.

"The inferi in Furnival's home." Pyrrha's tone brooked no digression.

"Oh . . . yes," Byron said, sounding stricken, strained with something apart from anger. "Yes, they were vampires. My patients . . . former patients. Didn't survive the procedures . . . I—thank you. For reclaiming them," he said when Pyrrha tilted her head. His words came a shade thicker and more precise, as if he were clinging tight to his composure. "I didn't want to debase them like that, I loathed it, but Aradia had led me to believe—they deserve better, and now I can—I can give it to them . . . I hope it's enough." The last seemed meant for himself in a whisper.

Without call for an answer Pyrrha worked the spell and passed through the mirror again, vanishing it behind her with a flick. Daisy had reclaimed the scribing chair and watched her from it grimly, curled in on herself.

"That was barbaric," Daisy said immediately.

Pyrrha left the bedroom and strode up the hall, past Nona's door, past ignited oil lamps into the strange hues of green and blue that faintly pulsed and swirled across the dark surfaces of the study, thrown by the dull radiance of the brimming vats and the neural nebula. Determined footsteps clicked doggedly from the hall behind. The muddled smells of blood and antiseptic and the subtle ozone of magic served to let the tension from her bearing; this was the refuge from which she would mend what shouldn't have broken.

Daisy battered the door open. "Did you really have to work him over like that? I know you're not such a cruel person."

There were several texts resting out of place upon one of the workbenches, plucked up and perused with intent by Daisy, judging by the fair progress through each. The evidence of her investment was oddly heartening. Pyrrha marked their pages with a charm and stacked them orderly.

"You can't just ignore me!"

"Can't I?" Pyrrha said irritably. She felt an instant stab of regret burying itself in their history.

"It's like that, is it?" Daisy said, the anticipated hurt in her voice no less painful to hear for it.

"I'm sorry." Pyrrha pressed at the burn that tingled beneath her temple. With conscious effort she turned to meet Daisy's wounded gaze. "I didn't mean that. And I certainly didn't relish Byron's treatment, but his defiance called for quelling. We can't afford subversion or dissent undermining our efforts in light of what we face."

"And _torture_ was the best way to bring him 'round?"

"What else would you advise? That I should treat the artificer of our premature deaths with compassion and tenderness? I would do as well to invite another knife in my back."

"I don't know," Daisy said. She paced along the length of a brewing table, wringing at her hands. "Surely, though, there was another way? You heard him, he said he'd been forced into it—couldn't you have _reasoned_ with him, got him on side?"

"You heard me, as well. It was an elusion of responsibility; there are ever countless ways in which we may choose to react. Byron is a rational man, and he made an informed, autonomous decision to throw in his lot with Aradia over myself. I can't place my trust in his reason, but I can give him good cause to reevaluate. And so I have. I don't believe he'll make the same mistake twice."

"I should bloody well hope not!" Daisy said. "Who knows what parts he might lose next time?"

"I do," Pyrrha said. Daisy gave an appalled sort of laugh and shook her head in disbelief. "I've done him no permanent harm. Put him out of your mind now; we've a delicate matter to resolve."

A cauldron appeared from nothing on the table beside Daisy. Within, a mudlike substance bubbled.

* * *

Their plan—Pyrrha's plan was a sound one, if not entirely satisfactory in scope; the interminable trend of disregard for her own wellbeing had stubbornly soldiered on despite Daisy's urging. Her excuse was that anything more convoluted than what they had devised would necessitate her direct involvement, which she had discounted as an option from the outset. Morrigan soared ever onward, never tiring, a dreadful flight that need not alight 'til the sight of its prize.

The sky above Dublin's Merrion Square Park was blessedly free of storm clouds, instead lidding the forest with a dense slate blue that Daisy wanted to pause for and appreciate, just for a moment that wouldn't be missed, but she refrained. Her eyes never strayed from the impalpable path ahead.

At the center of the park the trees were broad and towering, and they had ample room between them to stretch freely their great limbs like revelers joined hand in hand. Among the veinlike roots grew springy grass freely interspersed with wildflowers, and magically absent was any other form of more unsightly undergrowth, affording the landscape an inexplicable liberated feeling as Daisy made her way further on. Laughter rang out from some far-flung edge of the grounds: a sound that, around the liminal woodland, might have belonged to muggles or to magicals.

Light the shade of embers angled in between the trunks and branches to betray the sun as it peeked vainly into the forest from over the western horizon. The wind blew with a sound like distant ocean waves, and it carried trilling birds and their songs along on its currents and crests. A cluster of trees more dense than the rest marked the edge of the copse Daisy sought. As she drew nearer she could make out other robed forms advancing upon the grove as she was, witches and wizards closing in from every direction with the same carefree ease; Daisy wondered if the ataractic effect of the forest upon its travelers wasn't entirely natural. Perhaps it was only a flight of her imagination, a whimsy stoked by the felicitous spell Pyrrha had worked to ensure her success.

Daisy passed through the perimeter of the copse and found only further emptiness split by the smooth oaks. The thicker canopy made for better shade, but Daisy could still see green as far as her eyes would allow in the forest's interstices; the land seemed to span a far greater area than its municipal boundaries should permit. Doubt upon doubt niggled in her head and were summarily quashed while she walked directly onward, breathing deep of the lush scents permeating the air. She kept a steady pace until she spotted a pair of wizards leaning against a trunk, engaged in conversation; then she knew she'd found the area Pyrrha had described. The pair looked askance at her as she passed, and she was sure she felt their stares on her back, but she betrayed no reaction and delved further in until the gloom and huddled trees concealed her again.

Anticipation rose in Daisy's gut as she came to a halt and peered around at the forest that now seemed rather eerie in its near-featureless uniformity. No birds twittered, no leaves rustled. She chose a trunk at random—they were all spelled the same, she'd been told—and she stood opposite, wringing her sleeve for the barest few seconds before snatching her hand back, chastising herself with a muttered oath; she'd already broken, and she wasn't even inside yet. _Starting off at a limp,_ Daisy thought. _This'll go splendidly, I'm sure. Yeah, and the plan? It's not absolutely mad. Not at all._

A shake of the head dislodged her doubts. Pyrrha had been assured of her capability; Daisy had watched her face intently for signs of misgivings, but there had been nothing to see but that ever-present indomitable gaze, the look that said Pyrrha would sooner renounce all magic than surrender to anything. It was the same look she'd had while maiming Byron.

A shiver rattled Daisy. Before she could explore her disquiet much further she was spurred to action; she pressed her palm to the smooth bark of the tree, and her pale hand sank through the trunk like it was made of wet clay. She withdrew herself with little effort, wondering at the sensation, then raised her arm again and pushed herself into the trunk until it enveloped her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move, but felt no need to do either. The magic at work felt something like apparition, yet quite different; the darkness compressed her body and smothered her senses as if she'd been interred in a quagmire, the only sound that of the throbbing pulse in her head.

The sound began to fade, and she thought she must be alarmed at that, but her body was no longer conscious of any feeling save for a vague sinking sensation. All that was left in her was a strange sense of vertigo that heightened in tandem with the ceaseless downward momentum. Down, further down, deeper down, lower. Her thoughts formed less and less coherent, more and more labored, and the last one was dawning terror setting her fading mind afire for a fleeting second, a flitting spark flickering in and then out.

Eternal dark.

Seconds or centuries escaped notice, and then Daisy's skin itched. The shock of consciousness shot her eyes open and she gasped, nearly inhaling a rough, wiry length of something curled about her face. The pungent smell of earth choked the air. She was still descending, she realized, and in her addled state she struggled fiercely and felt herself sway in response; her body was suspended. By the time she'd gathered the wits to process what she saw and felt—roots twined and tangled all around her dangling body like a day's knitting gone entirely wrong—she had been released unceremoniously onto her feet. Unprepared, she collapsed onto smooth stone tiles.

 _"God,"_ Daisy breathed. She staggered to her feet and shakily brushed scattered bits of dirt from her murky viridian robes. Pyrrha had neglected to brace her for whatever had just happened in transit.

A laugh sounded from a distance aside, echoed a few times all around. "First time?" the man called.

Daisy suppressed her self-deprecating instincts and responded how she ought, attempting to regain some semblance of dignity. "One of the sharp ones, are you?" There were a couple snickers at that, but Daisy paid no further mind to the people milling about.

She'd been deposited beside a magnificent marble fountain near the center of what appeared to be an enormous grotto housing a wonder of stonework and magical flora, giving rise to the impression of an ancient garden preserved beneath the ground. A vast expanse of dirt yawned endlessly overhead as the roof of an unfathomably massive cavern. Roots protruded and hung down in gnarled bunches across every corner of the great earthen canopy—Daisy glimpsed the tangle that had conveyed her as it retracted back into the soil. Over the limestone colonnade that girded the surrounding courtyard she could see more root systems creeping upward and down from the darksome heights, some snarls bearing the robed figures of witches and wizards in their clutches.

There were plots of rich black soil perfectly interspersed throughout the courtyard, each blooming with the riotous colors and peculiar shapes of all manner of magical plants: plump and verdant bouncing bulbs bobbed merrily from their stems; the silky tendrils of flitterbloom shrubs waved and weaved gracefully as if transported from an ocean floor, vibrant lamplight sliding down to gloss their forms; striking bursts of midnight blue evinced the handsome teardrop petals of the moondew flower set prominently among the efflorescent plots. The attendant scents themselves seemed delightfully alive when Daisy breathed them in and out.

From stone benches and alcoves unfriendly eyes lingered on her face. What had been a pleasant buzz of chatter had devolved into overt muttering, uneasy shifting and shuffling, and suspicious gazes swiftly averted themselves when Daisy met with them. Such negative public scrutiny was a novel experience for her, but there were more pressing things to consider; the papers had evidently fulfilled their function admirably. The plan had been set in motion, and it was down to Daisy to guide it to fruition.

The heels of her boots clicked dully against the tile. She set a brisk pace to project an air of purpose, striding between blooming allotments and loose congregations of Ministry employees whose streams of conversation lapsed as she passed by. Lofty lampposts shined like lighthouse beacons along the smooth pathways, and by their light Daisy located an open archway in the perimeter colonnade, traversed the roofed passage, and came out to yet another breathtaking spectacle.

The stone walls and pillars of the courtyard had hidden the true extent of the grotto; Daisy was faced with a grand flagstone esplanade spanning along the banks of a massive lake. The scope of the subterranean landscape was such that it seemed to take the world above for a hollow shell formed protectively around its secret heart. More lampposts erected evenly down each edge of the walk were the sole bulwark against total blindness in the omnipresent murk. The path traced the rim of the lake and veered off to terminate at the foot of a seven-story facade of gleaming wood and iron and glass, its dozens upon dozens of windows glowing with warm light like the hollows of a bonfire.

All was quiet and fragile as melting ice. The lake seemed smooth and depthless as a mirror starved of light, yet a fleeting sound at the edge of hearing prompted a second glance as Daisy set off; faint ripples echoed across the water a fair distance from the shore. The yearning to turn back and watch a bit longer was a pleasure to ignore until she heard another sound, a series of them jumbling together, something like a cross between a bark and a dolphin's rapid-fire clicking. She longed for a glimpse of the creatures—she heard their playful splashes slapping at the water as they surfaced and submerged—but there was nothing the diversion could do to complement her task, and so the drive to proceed overruled her.

The Ministry building loomed ahead as grand and stately as Daisy had anticipated, abutting the lake and the outer edge of the cavern's walls, looking as if it had fallen right through the ground from its proper location on the surface and made a perfect landing. Banners the color of ivy hung from its face, each emblazoned with the same symbol in the center; a simple three-lobed Celtic knot woven in bronze. Roots seeped down and swept up before the building's entrance with regularity as Daisy drew nearer, going some way to explain the paucity of foot traffic along the esplanade.

Her solitude broke with a series of loud _cracks._ She was surrounded by raised wands. Nothing of her trepidation found its way to her face as she regarded the wizards with studied indifference, or so she hoped; her brief practice session in the mirror had often as not resulted in her appearing half-asleep.

The man directly opposite her was well-groomed and composed, making the missing right ear all the more glaring. He spoke first, voice smooth and dry as snakeskin.

"I'm pleased you've chosen to turn yourself in, Ms. Clay. You'll end up the better for it, I assure you—you need only surrender your wand peacefully to secure my goodwill, such as it may be warranted. My department has more than a few pressing questions for you."

"Howard MacLeod, I take it." A simple start to test the tenor of her voice. To Daisy's relief, it sounded properly dismissive.

"Correct. You'll forgive my manners as I'll forgive yours," he said, lowering his wand in favor of the other empty palm, "for not complying with my instructions immediately." The others surrounding her hadn't moved an inch, even in their stern expressions.

Daisy drew Pyrrha's wand gingerly by the tip and passed it over, already with the sinking feeling of being out of her depth. MacLeod's intent stare was unsettling, and she was relieved when it fell to the wand he turned this way and that in his hand. The wood was pale and slender, evenly knotted down its length, reminiscent of the hand that wielded it. Among the anxieties swirling in Daisy's head another took root seeing Pyrrha's wand in someone else's clutches, a feeling like sacrilege, twisting and churning in her chest as if she'd done something vile. MacLeod concluded his examination with a few smart waves of his own wand and nodded to himself.

"Pine and dragon heartstring, thirteen inches. Rigid. In keeping with the record," he said to the others. He slipped the wand into his robes and glanced around at his entourage, then waved them down; they lowered their arms but remained where they were. "These gentlemen will escort you inside and situate you in a private room. I'll be along shortly after, and then, if you prove agreeable, I should like to have a frank and lengthy discussion."

"I'm not here to satisfy your inquiries, Director," Daisy said, "only to distance my good name from the more newsworthy events of the past week."

MacLeod's eyes glinted. "A township's massacre by fiendfyre is an _event,_ is it?"

The condemnation in his inflection was carefully aimed to chink Daisy's implacable armor, and it nearly succeeded in getting an indignant rise from her. After a beat she said, "A consequential occurrence, yes . . . and you might consider controlling your tone if I'm to take you seriously. Such purposeful and blatant misinterpretation doesn't portend well for the productivity of our interview."

Daisy had been around Pyrrha enough to grow accustomed to her somewhat formal and wordy speech patterns—at times so overstuffed with syllables it was a wonder the woman never ran short of breath—but the experience made the impersonation no less strange. Daisy wondered if it might come easier if she'd spent half as much time buried in old books instead of anything else.

The answering smile didn't reach MacLeod's eyes. "Perhaps that was unfair of me," he said. The propped-up expression dropped even as he jerked his head back and turned for the Ministry's gleaming edifice. "Chamber eight," he barked over his shoulder; the wizards behind prodded Daisy into step behind the Director. "With some vigor, if you don't mind."

Daisy couldn't be sure if he'd been speaking to her or her wardens, but they didn't move to handle her more directly. She kept pace with the Director all the way to the light spilling out from the marvelous entrance. Aside on the lawns, roots crept soundlessly down upon a pair of waiting witches at their word, wrapping beneath their arms and around their waists; they shifted and leaned to accommodate the process while they conversed, faltering only to glare at Daisy as she was steered around.

Their grim procession climbed the steps and emerged into a lobby that glimmered with refracted radiance everywhere she looked, from the lacquered wood floors and wall panels, pristine glass partitions and windows, to the polished iron and bronze fixtures adorning every facet of the chamber's construction. The ceiling soared high and open to grant glimpses of higher floors through the gaps in the banisters ringing the lobbyside edges, and between the slim posts there was the flutter of parchment missives and the bustling, flapping, swishing of countless robe hems and cloak tails flowing along the balconies to disappear down one hall or another. The space echoed hollowly with busy footsteps and indistinct conversations held just out of earshot.

MacLeod parted without a word, slipping through one of many office doors down an adjacent hall. The chaperones herded Daisy across the vast lobby, past the reception desk broad enough to be manned by six, and through a set of doors into another adjoining hallway lit by charmed sunrays beaming down through a steepled grid of skylights. Thus Daisy was carted with such efficiency that she hardly had moments to memorize the latest twist or turn before they had moved on. Down a wide flight of stairs and round a corner put them smack in the middle of a sweeping cubicle farm with near as much air traffic as an owlery. They edged around the outskirts, Daisy pointedly ignoring the mix of curious and rapt looks drawn by the scar on her head; one of the nearer witches called out before they reached the next doorway.

"Smythe and Tibbetts! Hell—how'd you bag that one? She hasn't been sighted since Hogwarts!"

"Turned herself in," one of the wizards at Daisy's side responded, patting her shoulder like that of a well-behaved pet. She shrugged him off. "Picked her up right outside the building."

An overweight wizard in the next cubicle snorted. "Naturally. Tibbetts couldn't catch a cold if he skated starkers up the Shannon."

"You ought to stop tormenting yourself with those kinds of images, Flannigan," Tibbetts said as he led them through an open doorway. He called over his shoulder, "For the last time, I'm married—to a woman! It'll never happen!"

An upsurge of laughter followed them out into yet another clinically bare hallway, broader than the others and set with several sturdy-looking portals. They marched down and stopped at a door with 'C8' stenciled in black on its otherwise featureless face. Daisy was shuffled inside and left behind without another word, the door slamming shut with a rush of air and a clangor like that of an impenetrable vault. The notion of being locked away was a purposeful implication, she knew, an opening tactic, but it cooled her blood despite Pyrrha's forewarning. She ambled to the oak table and chairs set down in the center and sat, drawing some comfort from the fact that she hadn't yet bungled the plan. She ticked off the steps in her head one by one, and drummed at the table with her fingers—she sat bolt upright. She'd nearly forgotten her next dose.

Darting a glance at the door, Daisy went for her robe pocket and paused to listen, but it was useless; the door was evidently soundproof, having cut off the office chatter completely upon closing. Quickly, then. The flask sloshed thickly while she fiddled with the cap that required far too many turns to open. She recalled Pyrrha's brew—a storm cloud grey that swirled and ebbed mysteriously—and frowned before downing another dose. The sharp and acrid taste of charcoal nearly made her shudder as she stowed it.

Calm enough at last to have a proper peek around, Daisy did just that, but there was hardly anything to see. The room looked much like an empty office. The pallid walls were as bare as blank parchment, the table and chairs utterly utilitarian in design, as if conjured by someone who'd had their imagination magically extracted, and the pale white wall lamps gave the whole room a spectral cast. She hadn't noticed the subtle chill until the door swung in and breathed a hint of warmth in the Director's wake.

MacLeod prowled over and sat opposite Daisy with a smile honed a touch too sharply. "Pyrrha Clay. As you surmised earlier, I am the Director of the Department of Magical Justice, Howard MacLeod. I'll be conducting this interview personally—you can imagine how important the resolution of matters like ours are to the general public. The purpose of this exercise is to determine what role, if any, you played in Leitrim's fiendfyre massacre and the attack on Hogwarts' staff. I aim to do right by those affected, and bring justice where it's due."

The spiel called for no reply, so Daisy merely waited.

MacLeod was unruffled. "Nothing? Straight into it, then. Our conversation is being monitored and transcribed. Do you understand that, and offer freely your informed consent for the practice?"

"Yes."

"Then please state your full name for the record."

"Pyrrha Eleanor Rhiannon Clay."

"Eldest daughter of John Clay and Aphra Slane, correct?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Know that you have the right to legal counsel and may request it now or at any point throughout, though that would severely limit our options moving forward. Do you understand?"

"What 'limits' might counsel incur?"

MacLeod rubbed at his clean-shaven chin. "Put plainly, your appointed barrister would in all likelihood advise you not to speak to me at all—at which point I would be forced to formally arrest you under the evidence we've compiled, and we'd be right back where we started. I'm quite sure neither of us wants the trouble."

"You sound confident in the veracity of this _evidence,"_ Daisy said with a hint of derision. "Why not resort to arrest in the first place?"

"We have no reason to," MacLeod said simply, "as long as you're willing to hold this conversation. The ties we've uncovered between you, the fire, and the attack on Hogwarts' staff are strong but thus far only circumstantial, nonetheless. Strong enough to detain you and launch a more . . . thorough inquiry, yet . . ."

Daisy thought she'd picked up the thread; Pyrrha had already predicted the Director's predicament. The subjects of due process, false arrests and incompetence in law enforcement had become dramatically more sensitive in the wake of Voldemort's takeover, even in neighboring territories.

"Yet if you act upon faulty suspicions, particularly on such a high profile set of cases, you and your department suffer."

"Just so," MacLeod said, twitching up an eyebrow. "That in mind, would you like to request legal counsel at this time?"

"I'll manage fine without."

"Very well." MacLeod withdrew a sheaf of parchment from thin air and pored through the pages for a minute. "Pyrrha Clay . . . ten years old. Abducted in broad daylight by way of the Imperius Curse while shopping with your parents in Diagon Alley. Sold back to them after three weeks missing. I still remember my predecessor describing this case." His inscrutable eyes parted from the papers to meet hers. "He was never caught, was he? Never identified."

Daisy felt ill. Pyrrha hadn't ever gone into detail about the ordeal. "No," she whispered.

There was a pause between them in which Daisy found sharp anger needling her nerves for the fact that MacLeod had sought to exploit the trauma, to unbalance her equanimity, and he had succeeded.

"What's the condition of your sister, Ashlin?" he asked abruptly. "Where can we find her?"

A hard lump formed in Daisy's throat. "Dead," she said as shortly as possible, forcing herself to add, "burned to death in the fire."

MacLeod looked disheartened for a brief moment before sinking back into flat professionalism. "Dead . . . I'm sorry to hear that. Where are her remains?"

"Obliterated." He had to have known that already; again he'd meant to trip her up.

"The fire originated near your land in the forests of County Leitrim. Do you know anything about how it began, who conjured it?"

"Yes. We were attacked in my home by a witch; she conjured the fiendfyre that killed my sister. I barely escaped," Daisy said, turning her head to bare the scar, "as you can see."

"A witch called Morrigan?"

A startled pang struck Daisy, and she held herself from squirming. "That's right," she admitted; there was no point attempting denial if he already knew. "How did you learn that name?"

"It was the name you gave in your warnings," MacLeod said, leaning forward like a hound intent on a scent, "during firecalls to the households of Gresser and Espinosa, by their independent testimonies. Correspondence which, on the reckoning of our experts, took place a short time _before_ the fire's ignition. You supposed ahead of time that this witch was en route, with hostile intentions for other persons as well as yourself. Tell me: if that were the state of things, why did you never contact law enforcement?"

The deadened isolation of the room honed each question to a puncturing point in the barrage that MacLeod aimed at Daisy. Circular queries begot circular explanations that obscured as much or more than they unveiled; Daisy did her damnedest to paint a credible picture of victims of cruel and random circumstance, a case that proved not at all compelling to the Director. The edge in his voice whetted itself sharper each time a repeated and rephrased question met with precisely the same unsatisfying answer. There was nothing to be gained and life to be lost in having the DMJ on Morrigan's trail, and so Daisy's focus was solely on Pyrrha's extrication for as long as she could keep it up. MacLeod had quickly tired of it.

"Describe the witch." _If she exists,_ was the unspoken addendum.

The thought of relating Morrigan's wasted appearance on top of every other nonsensical detail was faintly amusing from an outside perspective; Daisy felt she'd be exasperated as well to be subjected to such a broken narrative. "I can't. She attacked from the dark of the forest. I only ever saw fire."

"And you didn't apparate?" MacLeod barked for the fourth time.

"We were repelled," Daisy responded for the fourth time.

"You've provided not a shred of evidence thus far for this mysterious person's existence or motives." MacLeod sat back and ran a hand across his face, hard gaze flicking to the scar and returning. "I think neither of us wants for the focus of my department's theories to take a fratricidal turn."

"No," Daisy said, returning a cold look of her own. "But it's not _my_ responsibility to accumulate evidence and reconstruct the crime, Director, unhappily for you. Dispense with your frustrated threats, or I'll take my leave of you."

MacLeod shook his head, brows clenched down. "As I've told you, that would be to the detriment of us both, but you far more so than me; I and my department can bear a bit of bad press to get at the truth. It'd be far from the first time . . . So," he said, leaning forward on his arms again as if to pin her in place with his gaze, "you'd known quite a bit about this witch before she ever allegedly arrived at your property on the twenty-third of August. Tell me how that came to be."

"No."

MacLeod's stare twitched a bit narrower. "One would think you'd be clamoring to provide all the information you could on your sister's murderer."

Restlessness had begun to tingle along Daisy's arms and legs, but Pyrrha never fidgeted. She remained impassive and summoned up in herself the unyielding will that Pyrrha embodied.

"You presume that I want her found by your department."

"Ah." MacLeod sat back and studied her with new eyes, sharper and more critical. "I don't suppose it would deter you to know that vigilantism carries a sentence of up to twenty years toiling in the bowels of the Agon Ergastulum. Twenty years of torturous labor without the sun on your face, the wind in your hair . . . twenty years without even the briefest instant of quiet. I've had the distinct displeasure of visiting the place often enough in my tenure, as you can imagine; I can attest to the rumors. The inmates _never_ stop howling."

A shiver crawled across Daisy's skin. Wizarding Ireland's maximum security prison—originally built by ancient Roman spellcasters to contain and exploit captives during their incursions into Celtic territories, according to Pyrrha—was right beside Azkaban on the list of places Daisy never wanted to see the inside of. Though she knew Pyrrha would tear the government and its infrastructure to ribbons to keep her out of prison, even the suggestion of her incarceration was disquieting, not least because she felt more and more as if she might deserve it. Byron's slack grimace flashed in front of her eyes. He'd looked to her for help, and she'd watched.

"It needn't come to that, though," MacLeod said, misreading her expression. "If you can find it in yourself to put aside the idea of personal revenge and cooperate with us, I'm sure we can—"

The door swung open and shut to admit a dark-haired witch of imperious bearing. Her features were arrestive, iconic, like that of a reverently crafted idol born into irony for inspiring only envy in the hearts of all beholders. Polished stone eyes shifted from Daisy to the scar, and finally onto MacLeod, who looked back with an expression torn between astonishment and annoyance.

"Rude of you to start without me," she said. Her accent wasn't thick enough to mar the low melody of her voice, like the lulling hum of some bewitching predator. "Have you forgotten? We were to investigate our terrorist _together._ This is the meaning of 'joint operation'. Or do you find your Minister that easy to disregard?"

"Despite your _repeated_ assertions," MacLeod ground out, "as yet there's nothing linking Pyrrha Clay to your incident with the giants—"

"Bah! My findings hold the same weight as yours, and yet her face is plastered over posters and papers clear across your country. Do not insult me further by pretending—poorly—that this," she said, flicking a hand at Daisy, "was not a juvenile attempt to exclude my government."

"Introductions would seem to be in order," Daisy said, clasping the stump beneath the table to keep herself still. The blunted end, smooth and deformed and deficient, gave her a disturbed thrill of secondhand pain.

"Would they?" The witch's eyes burned into Daisy's. She conjured a high stool and sat halfway on, perching beside the table so as to loom a little even over Pyrrha's stature. "I have the distinct impression we have met once before."

"Ms. Clay, this is Rosalind Baranov of Russia's FS3, Motherland Security branch. I hadn't meant for you two to make acquaintance quite so soon," MacLeod said, pressing white-knuckled hands over the spread of parchment before him; he looked disturbed enough to be considering a sudden shift of the table to dislodge Baranov's stately frame. "If at all. It seems someone within my department has elected to abet a foreign witch hunt. We'll have a full sweep for anomalous influence completed before this interview's conclusion," he said, eyes momentarily flicking toward the bare wall opposite the door. "And a thorough personnel audit straight after."

"I expect it will bear much the same fruit as your last several such attempts," Baranov said without turning from Daisy. "But let us postpone this pissing contest. Bring me up to speed, will you?"

"Outside." MacLeod gathered his papers and led the way through a door that hadn't been there a moment ago, set in the blank wall he'd glanced at; it vanished again when Baranov shut it behind her with a parting glare.

The situation seemed to mutate with a new complication every minute—that was how it felt in Daisy's racing heart, but really, nothing about the plan had changed apart from the preceding ordeal. Pyrrha had mentioned the FS3 only in passing, evidently not as concerned as she ought to have been, and now Daisy was in for double the pressure bearing down on her. She found she missed the feel of Pyrrha's wand in her hand, pernicious and empowering in a way that was nearly intrusive, akin to wielding a thirsty dagger in a parlor teeming with tender throats.

It was clear MacLeod had been beating around the bush to some extent, seeking to apply enough pressure to tease out any sort of inconsistency or contradiction in her story and then capitalize on it to fluster her, goad her into greater missteps. But Daisy gained nothing from allowing the interrogation to drag. She huffed and stared into the table's smooth grain, tracing the winding age lines and rings with her eyes, and as the seconds ticked by restlessness roused itself in her body again. The solution it thrust up before her was immediate and selfishly inclined, yet, she was surprised to find, straightforwardly effective in theory.

The chair scraped a little against the floor as she straightened her posture and aimed her impatience first at the blank illusory wall, then pointedly at the exit. As she'd not been formally arrested, the door was in all likelihood unlocked and waiting for her to effectuate her earlier threat, heedless of the appropriated wand; of course, she hadn't a real hope of quitting the building unmolested. No reaction from beyond the wall was forthcoming, the close chamber still and silent as a breathless wake. The sturdy door bore her blatant gaze for a minute counted under her breath, and then another.

Daisy stood.

For a beat she stalled, half-expecting a reaction, and on being disappointed she emulated Pyrrha's economical stride to cross the room and seize upon the door handle, which clunked and turned at her will. To Daisy's faint disappointment the portal's heft precluded any notion of dramatic flinging.

"Something urgent, Ms. Clay?" She turned back at MacLeod's dry voice. He emerged and reclaimed his chair, Baranov sweeping in at his heels. His stare was expectant.

"I value my time."

"And I, mine . . . so I will strike at the heart of the matter." Baranov stalked around the table to stand opposite Daisy, tense and coiled, seeming poised to react in an instant. "Who are you really—and why have you come here wearing the face of Pyrrha Clay?"

A thrill jolted from Daisy's neck down her spine. "Explain yourself," she said flatly, her heart tumbling.

"You were observed," MacLeod said, tilting his head at the charmed wall, "taking a dose of Polyjuice Potion. You withstood the natural urge to shiver quite admirably. However, under sufficiently diligent attention, one can't hope to conceal the characteristic fluctuation of the flesh, fleeting though it may be."

Daisy crossed her arms to forestall their trembling, and she regarded the pair with a cutting distaste. " . . . You deliberately interrogated an impostor."

"It's worthwhile to know what someone's willing to share with an accomplice," MacLeod said, "even if every last word is a lie." He shot Baranov an irritated look.

The still air was tense and charged between them, strained with impending action, for all that Daisy was without a wand, hopeless to resist. Baranov had her own wand out, eyes narrowed and probing, as if Daisy might suddenly produce a fistful of instant darkness powder and take off running. The Director watched her with equal intensity. In plain view the marred side of his head displayed a stretch of unmarked skin where an ear or its hole should've been, eerily smooth and doll-like. His wand lay inches from his clasped hands upon the table.

Daisy was caught. The thought caught her breath in turn.

Her mouth was bone dry. "And now?"

Baranov cast so quickly there wasn't time to flinch. _"Revelio!"_

Every inch of Daisy's flesh itched and bubbled as if she'd fallen into a vat of Famke's Facial Effacer. She could only look down at her body's willowy frame shrinking, ashen skin reclaiming a healthy olive tint, the stump of her wrist sprouting up her hand as if it were a glove being turned right side out. Faint silvery-pink scars, nicks and burns traced themselves back across her knuckles and fingers like the etchings and blots of a slipshod quill. When she raised her eyes to meet Baranov's statuary stare again, she found she was no longer the taller.

Reacting far too late, Daisy tried the door again, the sleeves of Pyrrha's robes falling past her hands to slip up her palms on the metal handle. She fumbled and strained and the mechanism gave not an inch.

"Whatever sort of game you were attempting to play here, you have lost." Baranov sounded at once victorious and livid. _"Now_ you are under arrest. Sit back down and answer our questions—I will know a lie—and you may yet dare hope to leave this room without the promise of a swift execution."

MacLeod made a sharp _tsk_ of reproach. "That will be the Tribunal's call to make, Ms. Baranov, as she was apprehended within our jurisdiction."

He went on to read the rights of the accused directly into the roaring void of Daisy's head. The room felt set adrift on an axis as she shuffled, unsteady and stumbling over her robe hem, toward the empty chair that seemed to glide away as she made to edge nearer. Pulse after pulse railed against her ribs and swelled in her skull until she'd stopped seeing what her eyes aimed at, and all thought was only for not drowning on the air her lungs forced inside. She sat, or her legs gave up, and she watched MacLeod speak at her with his brow creased in a stern and probing sort of concern, and the calm noises from his mouth started to repeat themselves, beating their way into her head until they registered.

"Do you understand your rights and recourses as I've outlined them?"

"I—yes," Daisy said. "And I have . . . nothing more to say."

The words seemed to flare up from her burning lungs to become a breathless hiss, like sparks out of throbbing embers, and the feeling that stole her breath and drained her impetus and emptied her thoughts wasn't dread, or terror, or madness: it was not even desperate fury that set her limbs shivering with adrenaline spilling down from the flooding well of her brain.

"We will discover what we need to about you with or without your cooperation," Baranov said, pacing nearer to press her palms to the table and level her piercing eyes to Daisy's. "The fate that awaits you if you choose not to speak has already been clearly defined. You do not want it—no one would. But not everyone has this chance to escape it." She peered into Daisy's face for something she failed to find, lips drawing thin. "Begin with your name."

What engulfed Daisy then was exhilaration.

"Ah . . . no need." MacLeod's expression went nearly slack with surprise; he plucked up his wand and appeared to consider, then performed a complex twirl that engendered a sourceless emotional pall which abated when the spell did. His eyes widened further. "I recognize this woman—her name is Daisy Pitcher."

Baranov straightened and frowned down at her. "The missing professor of your Hogwarts? She was presumed dead."

"She was, but as we can see, she's quite alive." MacLeod turned his disquieted gaze up to Baranov. "And she's under the Imperius Curse."


End file.
